Revelations Part One
by lovelorn45
Summary: New York City, December,1994,Andrea Reeve, a bitter old woman lies dying and reveals an astonishing secret to her daughter Josephine. Shocked by her mother's startling revelations, Josephine embarks on a journey that will change her life forever.
1. Chapter 1

Revelations, is an original story, inspired by the U.S. cult T.V. series BEAUTY AND THE BEAST and was first written in 1998 and published independently. I can confirm that I am the original author.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Ron Koslow, Witt-Thomas Productions, Republic Pictures, or CBS.

_**CHAPTER ONE**__**.**_

**SUNDAY, 11TH DECEMBER, 1994 - NEW YORK CITY.**

The fairy lights winked and blinked silently on the tall, tinsel and bauble bedecked fake Christmas tree in the far corner of the room, and from the hallway beyond the slightly open door came the sound of a small antique brass carriage clock chiming the hour, but the young woman seated at the old Mahogany writing bureau facing the window, neither saw the seasonal lights and trimmings, nor heard the soft tinkle of the old clock ringing out the hour.

She was miles away, across an ocean, on another, distant continent, her large green eyes unfocused, tears rolling unashamedly down her pale cheeks, as faces from her past filled her mind's eye.

Her father, Edward, gone these past twenty years.

Jeff.

Amy.

Vivid recollections of other Christmas celebrations.

All gone.

Forever.

Her loving husband.

Her beautiful baby daughter ,

Dead these past long, bleak two years.

And now ….

This year,

Still more pain.

Still more heartache.

More loss.

Her thoughts inevitably turned to the woman lying in that big, creaky old brass bed upstairs.

Her mother.

Until recently, still so lovely, vibrant and alive, wearing her fifty eight years as if they were nothing.

Andrea Reeve had always been a beauty , slender , fragile , intense blue eyes , a rich, thick, mane of strawberry blonde hair ,

And her daughter had inherited her father's dark, more dominant characteristics.

Mother and daughter had never been close, but it had not been for the want of trying, at least on the daughter's part.

There had always been a coolness, a distance between them, a chasm that could never be bridged.

It was almost as if her mother had been silently punishing her for some nameless crime.

Her father had interceded when she had been very young, employing a string of nurses, nannies and tutors, poor substitutes all for a mother's love, and then, when he had deemed her old enough, he had shipped her off to stay with an elderly Aunt of his in England, a painfully thin and shy ten year old with no confidence and no idea what it felt like to be loved, and been warmly received by the elderly Aunt, and there she had remained, living in London with her Aunt until she was considered old enough, and emotionally mature enough to go to a good girl's boarding school, and spending the holidays either at the house in London, or at the pretty cottage on the South Coast, near Brighton.

It hadn't been so bad.

She had wanted for nothing.

Except a mother's love.

Aunt Julia had tried her best, but she had been unmarried and childless, by conscious choice, and had found it hard to reach out to the child.

Her father had tried to compensate for this lack of motherly love in her life, but his visits had been all too brief and infrequent.

And he had died, suddenly, just two weeks short of her fifteenth birthday.

Her mother had all too swiftly agreed to allow her to stay in England, not wanting to up root her and disturb her education, she had said.

And so, she had continued her education, graduating with distinction, and had then gone on to a medical course at Oxford.

Aunt Julia had died just before she had qualified, leaving her the London house and the seaside cottage, and all her other worldly possessions, none of which could compensate for the lack of affection in her life.

And then she had met Jeffrey Grayson, the archetypal absentminded professor, and quite surprisingly to both of them, they had fallen in love.

She had learned to juggle a glittering career in medicine with a home, a husband, and eventually, their much longed for child, Amy, who had arrived with a great flourish, and angry, red-faced cries, on her parent's fifth wedding anniversary.

Their marriage had lasted six years.

Six wonderful, magical years, the happiest of her life, filled with all the love that she had missed out on in her childhood.

Six years.

Cut tragically short two years ago, when Jeff, bringing their year old daughter back from a routine visit to the local baby clinic, had swerved to avoid a motorcyclist on the wrong side of the road, and had ploughed into a petrol tanker, about to make a delivery to a nearby gas station.

The ensuing fire had been so intense that neither of them had stood a chance.

A mercifully swift ending, the coroner had assured her.

Not even then had her mother offered to come to her, to comfort her.

Nor had she asked her to return home.

She had stayed on in England, throwing herself into her work, but had found the constant stream of patients through her office tiresome, the routine diagnoses of 'flu, pregnancy, cancer , unfulfilling.

And so, she had returned to Oxford to do a post graduate course in forensic medicine, finding a strange peace and comfort in learning the secrets that dead men and women could reveal to those who knew how to ask the right questions, and where to look to seek the right answers.

She had acquired a position with the Home Office as one of it's junior pathologists, and she had built up a reputation for thoroughness and efficiency.

And then, four months ago, at the end of September, quite out of the blue, Andrea had written to her, asking her to come home.

She was dying.

Suddenly hearing the soft sound of approaching footsteps from the black and white checkered marble tiled hallway, she hastily brushed away her tears, pushed a damp tissue up the cuff of her white Angora sweater, and tried to restore order to her hair, a few wisps of dark chestnut hair having escaped from the chignon in the nape of her neck, just as a tall, attractive, elderly man stepped into the room.

Dr Patrick O'Shea, long time family friend and family physician, tall, well over six feet, still attractive and distinguished despite his almost seventy years, his short cropped hair only now beginning to show slight signs of iron grey at the temples and behind his ears.

He wore an expensive and elegantly cut dark lounge suit with a crisp white handkerchief just showing in his top pocket, and an old fashioned watch and chain attached to the pocket of his waistcoat.

He strode purposefully across the room toward her.

She rose to greet him, offering him a pale, cool cheek for him to press cool, dry lips against, then stepped back and smiled wanly.

"How is she?" She asked solemnly, her voice soft and low.

"Pretty much as you described, Josephine, I'm sorry. She is in a lot of pain, but I can't give her any more medication," he explained, walking away from her now toward the black marble fireplace with it's gently crackling log fire blazing cheerfully in the hearth.

He turned, leaning against the mantle, to regard the young woman, sighing sadly, his sympathy all for this forlorn, desperately unhappy, lonely girl.

"I know, Patrick. Thank you for coming by," she spoke softly, her manner demure, and polite.

He had known her all her life, had nursed her through most of the usual childhood ailments.

And had been captivated and enchanted by her grace, beauty and poise, even at the tender age of four.

She had grown into a real beauty.

Her father's daughter, Edward's dark good looks and sparkling green eyes with tiny flecks of gold in the irises, so unlike Andrea's cool blonde, blue eyed beauty.

Patrick O'Shea was aware of the strained relationship between mother and daughter, although not the reason for it.

Did not even begin to try to understand it.

He regarded her now, taking in her slender figure and pale complexion, the red-rimmed eyes and the neat way that she had her hands folded in her lap now that she was seated again.

She had been away too long.

Exiled.

Twenty five years, all told.

It was a long time.

Where had the years gone?

He recalled the bright, energetic ten year old that Edward had brought to his office, when he had come to ask Patrick to send her medical records to his relative's doctor in England, explained why he felt it beneficial for her to go and live over there, and for the life of him, Patrick had not been able to find a convincing argument to stop Edward from doing what he intended.

It had been the right thing for Josephine.

Now, it was no wonder that the two women were complete strangers.

Edward Reeve had done his best to cajole, persuade, even shame his wife into loving and accepting their daughter, but, in the end, he had decided that the child would benefit from being away from Andrea.

He had been right.

She had thrived.

Edward had been much relieved to watch his only child growing stronger and more confident, happy, forging a successful life for herself, with people who showed her at least a little warmth.

She was more English than New Yorker now.

Patrick liked her accent.

He liked the understated way that she spoke, dressed, carried herself, almost as though she were loathed to draw attention to herself in any way.

She was a shrewd, intelligent young woman.

There was only one thing lacking in her life.

A mother's love.

It was such a pity about her husband and child.

But she had survived that ordeal.

And she was stronger now.

He wondered if the bitter, cold, heartless woman upstairs had any inkling as to just how much this young woman loved her, and needed to be loved in return?

No.

Probably not.

Andrea had always been too wrapped up in her own problems, too self obsessed.

It was almost as if she had never conceived Josephine, had no maternal feelings toward her at all, had, indeed, firmly rejected the child at birth.

Andrea had never spoken of it to him.

But, as her physician, Patrick was aware that she had delivered another child before Josephine. He had no idea what had become of the child.

It certainly wasn't Edward Reeve's ….

And Patrick suspected that Andrea had been punishing Josephine all these years, for not being that other child.

The brother or sister that Josephine, he was certain, even to this day, knew nothing about.

"Josephine, I can stay a while longer," Patrick offered softly.

"No, thank you," she sighed softly, unaware that she was wringing her hands as they lay folded in her lap. "I'll be all right," she assured, unsure how to deal with his kindness and sympathy.

"She …. she doesn't have very long, Josie, and you don't have to go through this alone. Let me help you, please …."

"I know, Patrick, and I hear what you are saying …." She lifted her gaze to meet his then, those big green eyes full of pain and agony. "But, she is _**my**_ mother, and I will stay with her, to the end."

Patrick could both see and hear her resolve now, and his heart went out to her.

"I am no stranger to death, Patrick, and this is the last thing that I can do for her," her voice suddenly caught in her throat, and she lowered her eyes quickly then, so that he would not see the fresh tears that were suddenly brimming there.

"Josie, you're tired, you're overwrought , please, let me help you."

"No, thank you, Patrick …." She made a visible effort to control her emotions now. "I made a promise, and I won't go back on my word."

"Someone should be here with you …."

"Why? I'm not afraid. Death has no mystery for me. He's no stranger. He's been hovering over my shoulder this past month, Patrick. I'm getting quite used to his being there …." She produced a badly shredded paper tissue from the sleeve of her fluffy white sweater, and gracefully dabbed at her tears.

"Josie …."

"She's not afraid to die, either, Patrick," Josephine told him softly. "In fact, I think she'll welcome it …." She sighed.

"Yes, the pain has been …. It will be a merciful release."

Josephine nodded gently in agreement, but did not add that she believed that her mother would welcome death for an entirely different reason.

Simply because she was sick of living.

Heart sick.

Soul sick.

Her life was a burden to her.

And so were the people in it.

Some terrible ordeal, some terrible tragedy had touched Andrea when she had been very young.

Her father, Josephine now recalled, had explained to her once, a very long time ago, and Andrea had never recovered from it.

Whatever_** it**_ was ….

Now Andrea was grateful to be free of the weight of it.

"You'll call me …. As soon as it's over? I'll come straight over …."

"Yes, thank you, Patrick. You've been a good friend …. To both of us."

Josephine rose gracefully from her seat at the Mahogany writing bureau, and walked slowly across the room, into his open arms, pressing a soft warm kiss to his slightly rough cheek.

"Josie …." She could clearly see his concern for her in his pale, watery old blue eyes, and hear it in the tightness of his voice.

"I know, Patrick. Bless you …."

She drew away from him quickly then, lest her rigid hold over her emotions crumble, and pinned a brave smile on her lips.

"I'll be fine," But the words were more for her own reassurance than for his.

"She doesn't deserve you, Josie …."

There was anger and bitterness in his voice now.

"Or your love …."

"Of course she does, Patrick. Whatever else she might be, she is still my mother."

"She was never_** that**_. At least not the kind of mother that you needed …. Deserved …."

Why was she defending Andrea?

He could not believe her dignity and compassion toward the older woman, knowing that if their positions were reversed, Andrea Reeve would have had no such feelings toward her daughter.

"I love her," Josephine spoke softly, more tears brimming in those beautiful, flashing green and gold eyes.

Patrick O'Shea felt a lump rise in his throat, and wanted nothing more than to fold his arms around this extraordinary young woman, and make the pain and heartache go away, make everything all right for her.

He swallowed convulsively, watching her wrestle with her tears.

If she had been his daughter things would have been so very different.

"I love her …." Josephine said again, her voice thick with emotion. "I can't help that, any more than she can't help not being able to love me …. I accepted that a long time ago, Patrick. She needs me now, and that is enough for me. I must do as my heart and my conscience dictate," she let out a long, ragged sigh.

"Josephine, please …. Prepare yourself for …. The worst …."

"Patrick, I have been preparing for the last month."

"No, child , I mean, prepare yourself for the fact that by morning it could all be over …."

"I know that too, Patrick. I know …. but …. we can't live forever. If it's mother's time to go …."

"What will you do? When it's over, I mean?" He asked solemnly, unable to shake the sudden feeling of dread and foreboding that settled in his heart.

"Do? I don't know, yet. I still have my work."

She had managed to secure a temporary exchange with the New York Field office of the F.B.I., hastily arranged through a good friend back in England, when she had received word that her mother was ill.

She had managed to work on a part time basis, thus allowing her to leave home later in the mornings, after tending to her mother, and return home earlier in the afternoons to help with her mother's evening routine.

However, when her mother's health had deteriorated quickly at the beginning of December, she had requested compassionate leave, which the senior agent in charge had been happy to grant, on an indefinite basis, understanding the nature of her mother's illness, and her own need to be close as the end grew closer. He had told her that she would be welcomed back as soon as she felt able, when it was over, and that there was a possibility of a more permanent position becoming available in the New Year.

Josephine had been grateful for his understanding, and the offer of a permanent post, but she had made no commitment to stay on past December 23, and he had told her to think about it and let him know after the holidays.

"I guess I'll find some way to keep busy," she bestowed a watery smile on him then. "Don't worry, Patrick , I wont curl up and die too," she assured softly, although that was exactly what Patrick O'Shea was afraid of. "Thank you. For caring," she smiled again, reaching out now to take one of his old hands in her own. "I am so very grateful to you, Patrick. You've been my rock these past months, but please, do not worry about me. I've survived worse …." She swallowed involuntarily then.

"I _**am**_ worried, Josie, you've become like one of my own daughters," Patrick swallowed the lump in his throat then, and pulled her gently in to his arms. "Know that I am here for you, Josie ,always."

"I do …." She choked out, trying desperately not to give in to the tears that threatened to strangle her, knowing that if she truly welcomed this kindly old man's fatherly embrace, it would be her undoing.

"Thank you," she pulled away from him then, noting the tears welling up in his pale blue eyes.

The carriage clock in the hall chimed out the half hour, as Josephine withdrew from his embrace, and took a step away from him.

"It's getting late and the weather is deteriorating," she pointed out, taking a deep breath. "Your family will be concerned."

"I suppose you're right," he sighed heavily. The last thing he wanted to do was leave her alone in this quiet old house.

"And I had better go and see if mother is awake. She might want some tea."

Together, they walked out of the drawing room and across the wide black and white checkered tiled lobby toward a wide central staircase.

Josephine watched as Patrick collected his dark, heavy winter top coat, a thick woolen scarf, a neatly brushed old fashioned bowler hat, walking cane and umbrella, then pressed a soft kiss of farewell to his old cheek.

"Josie …." She smiled softly then. He was the only one who still called her that and he so reminded her of her father at that moment, that she felt a lump rise in her throat once more.

"Goodnight, Patrick. Take care when you leave. The steps are bound to be slippery."

She turned away from him then, and gracefully began to climb the wide, red carpeted stairs to the first floor, without looking back.

Patrick O'Shea watched her go, his heart in his mouth.

Tonight he was going to lose yet another old friend, in Andrea Reeve.

And despite her assurances, he had a terrible feeling that he would lose Josephine too.

She was already slipping away.

Not eating.

Barely sleeping.

Nursing her dying mother with tenderness and love.

Still trying to wring one last drop of love and affection out of the cold hearted, bitter old woman.

But Patrick feared that it was a hopeless cause.

Andrea Reeve was simply incapable of loving the girl.

And that was her greatest loss.

Patrick had meant what he had said about being there for Josephine.

Hadn't needed Andrea's unexpected insistence that he promise to watch over her, for he loved Josephine as if she were one of his own daughters.

This unexpected request of Andrea's, had, for the briefest instant, given him a fleeting hope that she was softening toward the girl, at last.

But, Andrea had swiftly disabused him of that notion, no love in her, even at the end, her concern all for her need to be sure that all her last wishes and instructions would be carried out to the letter.

Josephine had reached the white balconied landing now, and with a natural grace and poise, walked slowly toward Andrea Reeve's bedroom.

Patrick watched as she turned the door knob, gently pushed the heavy door open, then disappeared inside without a word, as the door clicked shut behind her.

Patrick let out a long, deep sigh, and squinted the tears from his eyes as he turned and walked across the lobby toward the door to the street. Adjusting his thick black woolen scarf around his neck, he silently let himself out into the dark, New York night, his breath a plume of white vapor in the cold, snow filled air, as he carefully negotiated the four, wide stone steps of the stoop, down to street level, and walked stiffly to where his chauffeur driven, black Rolls Royce awaited him, his grey uniformed driver, Roberts, already out of the vehicle, holding the back door open for him.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Patrick could not resist one last look back at the house, his heart heavy, an errant tear rolling down his cheek.

If he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand Andrea Reeve's attitude toward her daughter.

But at least, after tonight, she would no longer have the power to hurt Josephine.

And maybe the girl would at last find some peace, and the happiness that she deserved.

/a\

From her mother's bedroom window, holding back the heavy, dark red velvet drapes, Josephine Grayson watched Dr O'Shea's car pull away from the curb, then continued to watch the silent fall of snow covering the street below.

Somewhere down the street, a brass band was playing _**Hark The Herald Angels Sing**_, and young children's thin voices struggled with the high notes in the chorus.

Josephine let the drapes fall back in to place, and then, half turning, stared down at the pale, gaunt old woman, looking so thin, so frail and weak, in the large brass bed, propped up by several fat white pillows, her long, lifeless hair, once so vibrant and so beautiful in its coloring, now streaked with grey, fanned out around her head, her skin almost translucent, her expression pinched with pain, even as she slept.

Josephine knew a death pallor when she saw one.

Patrick was right.

Andrea did not have very long.

The cancer had finally beaten her.

Even the Morphine no longer had the power to take even the edge off the pain.

And yet, she had stubbornly refused the sedative that Patrick had offered to her earlier.

And it had been then, that Josephine had known that there was some unfinished business that her mother intended to attend to before her passing.

Josephine pulled up an old gate legged chair with a faded red velvet cushioned seat, positioning it beside the bed, before sitting down with a heavy sigh, her gaze drawn to the fire dancing in the white marble fireplace across the room, crackling and sizzling as the logs moved, sending showers of yellow and orange sparks up the chimney to mingle with the snow.

Tonight, not even the dancing flames of the fire had their usual soothing effect on her.

Tonight, she was too wound up.

Filled with dread.

Filled with a sense of foreboding.

A sense that something momentous was about to happen.

And not just her mother's death.

Although, that was momentous enough.

No ….

It was something more.

Almost like she was about to discover the ultimate meaning of life.

Her mother's sudden harsh, hacking coughing pulled her thoughts back to the present, and rising swiftly from her chair, Josephine poured out iced water from a beautifully engraved _**Waterford **_crystal decanter, in to a matching tumbler.

With the glass in one hand, Josephine gently slipped her other arm under the pile of pillows, raising her mother's head so that she could press the small glass to her dry, cracked lips.

Her mother took two small swallows of water, then sank back against the pillows with a little moan.

"Its all right, Mother. I am here," Josephine assured softly, perching on the edge of the bed and taking her mother's frail right hand in her own. "I'm here …."

"Yes …." Andrea rasped. "But _**why**_ are you here?" She croaked, regarding her daughter with intense blue eyes. "By rights, you should hate me!" She choked out now. "I wouldn't blame you if you did."

"I don't hate you, mother."

"Liar."

"No, I don't hate you. I don't understand you …." Josephine sighed deeply. "But I have never hated you."

"You should."

"No …."

"Yes!"

"Mother, please …."

"You think that I don't love you, don't you?" The old woman regarded Josephine with a harsh expression on her face. "Well , you're wrong. I do love you .…" Josephine's eyes grew wide with shock at this sudden, unexpected revelation. "But not as a mother loves. You're quite right about that …." Andrea began to cough once again.

"Stop this Mother, please. Save your strength …." Josephine advised, offering Andrea the tumbler of iced water again, but she refused it, pushing the glass away with a frail, bony hand.

"Why? So I can endure one more day of pain and guilt? No. My time is over. Thank God, and good riddance!" The old woman began to cough again, harsh, hacking rasps that robbed her of breath and the power to speak.

With tears shimmering in her big green and gold eyes, Josephine reached out and gathered the frail old woman in to her arms, rocking her gently back and forth, stroking her once rich red/gold hair, now thin and wispy and streaked with grey, in a reassuring rhythm, as she murmured soothing noises and tried to calm the old woman.

"It's all right, Mother. Please don't upset yourself. I'm here …. I'm here …."

When the coughing fit stopped, the old woman pushed away from Josephine's tender embrace with surprising strength, and leaned back against her pillows.

"How can you even bear to look at me?" She rasped in a dry voice. "Knowing that I have never loved you as a mother …." Josephine could not answer. She had no words. "I tried to make myself care, and I am very proud of you …."

"Mother …."

"But, I could never love you as you deserved to be loved. I just couldn't …."

Tears suddenly welled up in those intense sky blue eyes, her voice a thin whisper now, only her stubbornness and her will power preventing her from succumbing to death's embrace.

"Listen to me, my girl, I know I've left it too late, but …. there are things that you should know. You deserve to hear the truth …." Andrea rushed on now, between painful gasps, her strength almost gone now.

"Sh, Mother, whatever it is, it doesn't matter now," Josephine assured, tears rolling unashamedly down her pale cheeks, shocked by her mother's admission that she did indeed love her, in some small way.

Shocked by the admission that it had not been the love of a mother for a daughter.

"Yes it does matter!" Andrea snapped. "I can't live with this any longer, and I don't want to take this secret with me to my grave! I have kept quiet about this for too long, and now I need to tell someone. You! I need your understanding, and your forgiveness …."

"Please Mother …." Josephine begged. "You don't need to say anything. I love you. Whatever it is, I forgive you …." She declared on a sob.

"Shut up Josephine! Shut up and let me do the talking …." Andrea suddenly reached out with a withered hand and grabbed her daughter's hand. "Listen to me, please …." She squeezed Josephine's hand with surprising strength, her eyes staring intently in to the face that so reminded her of Edward.

"Josephine, you have every right to hate me, to be angry with me, because I have been punishing you all these years …. for not being …. him …. my first born …. my son …."

"What?" Josephine gasped.

"That's right, child. You are not my only child. You were not my first born …."

All the fight suddenly seemed to drain out of Andrea at this confession, and releasing Josephine's hand, she sank back heavily against the pillows supporting her back, shoulders and head, tears glistening in her eyes as silent sobs caused her chest to heave violently.

Josephine regarded her mother with open mouthed astonishment and disbelief, completely lost for words.

"Yes child …. You have a half brother …." Andrea's voice was a breathy whisper now, barely audible over the sizzling and crackling and spitting of the fire.

"Did my father …."

"Yes. I told Edward about him, but not the truth. I never told anyone the truth …. Edward thought that I had been raped, by my stepfather …. It was easier to allow him to continue to believe that. The truth would have killed him …." Andrea gasped raggedly.

"Oh Mother …." Josephine found her voice at last. "How awful!" The word was so woefully inadequate, but she could find no other to express herself.

"I wasn't raped, at least …. I don't think so, but I was no willing participant either!"

There was a bitterness in her voice now, and her gaze seemed to turn inward now, with the memory.

Josephine fiddled with a rumpled tissue in fingers that seemed to have a mind of their own.

_**Where on earth was her mother going with this?**_

_**A brother?**_

_**I have a brother ,**_

Andrea Reeve let out a deep, shuddering sigh, drawing her daughter's pained green/gold gaze.

"Josephine, what I am about to tell you, no-one else has ever heard from my lips …." She confessed raggedly. "I couldn't bare to speak of it before …. but now …. I must …. I must!" She exhaled, her breath a long, ragged hiss then inhaled deeply.

"When I was seventeen years old, my mother remarried. My father was killed in the war, in Japan when I was only six. Well, the man that she married was a vile, viscous brute, fond of using his fists, always leering at me, making lewd comments, finding excuses to get me alone, pressing his vile, sweaty body against mine …." She shuddered.

"He would come home drunk, walk in on me in various states of undress, expose himself to me …." She paused briefly, closing her eyes, as though trying to arrange her memories of that time. "I told my mother, but she just made excuses for him. She needed him more than me, I guess …." Again Andrea paused to take in another shuddering breath.

"One night, he came home drunk. I was alone. Mother was out working a late shift at the local diner …."

She closed her eyes again then, against the awful memory, and Josephine instinctively reached out for her old hand.

"Mother, please …. Stop this. You don't have to go on …."

"I can't stop. I've hidden the truth for too long, Josephine …."

The look on Andrea's face was one of such despair and pain, that Josephine could hardly bare to look at her.

"Why mother? Why now? What good can it do now?"

"It needs to be told, please, Josephine …. Hear me out."

"All right, Mother," Josephine sniffed, regarding the frail, almost skeletal form in the centre of the old brass bed, and again saw the pain in her deep blue eyes.

And something more.

Guilt.

Shame.

Despair.

And her need for her daughter's understanding and forgiveness.

Absolution.

The weight of almost forty years of carrying this terrible burden alone, almost crushing her.

"I'm listening …."

"As I said, one night, he came home, drunk as usual …. and he tried to force himself on me …."

"Oh Mother …"

"He didn't succeed child. Thank God. He couldn't …. Because of the alcohol, I guess, but that didn't stop him taking out his frustrations with his fists …." Andrea flinched at the remembered pain, and Josephine squeezed her bony hand gently.

"He beat me, to within an inch of my life, as the old saying goes …." Her lips suddenly twisted cynically, in a bitter smile. "My mother came home from the diner, saw my battered face, heard his drunken ravings about how _**I**_ had thrown myself at _**him **_…. and she threw me out in to the street!"

"Oh my God!" Josephine exclaimed in genuine disgust.

"No, I couldn't believe it either!"

Another fit of coughing halted Andrea's tale at this point, leaving her pale, drained and breathless.

"Mother, you must stop this, now …." Josephine admonished sternly. "Can't you see this is killing you!"

"I'm dying anyway child …. Got to finish …. Must go on …. Can't stop now!"

Josephine let out a deep sigh of resignation.

"Josephine, I was so badly beaten, I could hardly see. I staggered around the neighborhood, no idea where I was going. I must have had a concussion, I think, because I remember being very sick and light-headed and I remember being almost run down by a cab, and then, staggering in to some filthy, stinking alley and collapsing amongst the garbage …."

"It's a miracle you didn't die …."

"Later, I wished that I had …." Andrea breathed huskily. "Some time later …." She forced herself to continue, and Josephine watched her with concern. "When I came around, there was a man. A stranger. Talking to me. Trying to reassure me. He had an accent. English, I think. He told me that he was a doctor, that he could help me. That he had taken me to a safe place. That he would nurse me, had tended my wounds …."

She faltered for a moment, squeezing a fresh crop of tears from between her fine lashes.

"Bastard drugged me …." She forced the words out through clenched teeth. "Kept me doped so I wouldn't ask too many questions about where I was, what he was doing to me, but I knew that I wasn't in any damned hospital!"

"Mother …."

"He kept me prisoner, this so called doctor. Some place, underground, I think …. I could hear the subway trains rattling overhead, smell wet earth and candle wax, although I was kept mainly in the dark."

Josephine watched her mother wrestle with the memories, although she found it very hard to believe.

She realized that there was no point in trying to stop her, and arguing with her only made the coughing worse.

There had to be some point to all of this, and it was obviously important to Andrea to get it off her chest.

But where did her brother come in to this?

"And while I was drugged, the bastard conducted experiments on me …."

"Experiments? What kind of experiments?" Josephine quizzed with a deep frown etched in to her brow.

"What kind of experiments do you think, child!"

"Mother, did he rape you?"

"No."

"Then what?" There was confusion in Josephine's voice now.

"Medical experiments of course. Some kind of new technique he called it. Oh he was a great talker was John, always going on about his genius. How the world would fall at his feet when they knew about his great work …."

"Mother, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that he made me pregnant!" Andrea choked out. "But not the way that other people do it!"

"If he didn't rape you, Mother …. Are you saying that he impregnated you using artificial insemination?" Josephine asked in disbelief.

Forty years ago that had been a very experimental technique, conducted mostly on animals.

"Yes, that's it. That's what he called it."

"Oh my God …."

"But that's not the worst of it, child …."

"How much worse can it be? Keeping a young woman hostage, conducting medical experiments on her against her will …."

Josephine's voice trailed away, as she stared at her mother with fresh eyes, wondering about what she must have endured all these years, understanding at last that she would not have been able to confide in anyone.

"I told you he was a great talker, well, sometimes, when he thought I was too doped to understand, he talked too much, let on that he was married, and that although they had tried to have kids of their own. They couldn't …. His fault, but, if this new technique worked, he could use it on his wife. I was his test case and he was very careful about documenting his brilliance!"

"He must have been completely mad!"

"I thought so too, but there were times when he was quite lucid, rational, even kind, for a maniac who kept me bound and gagged most of the time. I was grateful for any crumb of kindness that he showed me," Andrea explained hoarsely.

"I don't even think he knew what he was going to do with my child once it was born. If it survived …. He was so wrapped up in his own importance …." Andrea let out a long, shuddering sigh.

"Josephine, I did not see the light of day for eight months. I had no idea where I was, no contact with anyone, except this man, John. He brought my food and took away the dirty dishes, he monitored my health, and gloated over his success every day my belly grew bigger!"

Andrea paused briefly, while Josephine continued to regard her with stunned disbelief.

"I almost went mad," Andrea confessed raggedly. "There were times when I wished that I was dead, prayed I were dead, would perhaps have even tried to kill myself …. if he had just given me half a chance, but …." Andrea faltered then, drawing in several short, rasping, labored breaths. "There was the child …. This _**thing,**_ growing inside me. This whole new person who was counting on me to survive and it was so strange, but …. It was like I _**knew**_ his every thought, feeling, his need to survive. I felt every kick, every heart beat, and I _**knew**_ he was …."

"Mother?" Josephine frowned at the abrupt way that Andrea had halted her narrative.

"I'm all right, child," Andrea assured softly. "Oh God, Josephine …. How was I to know? I was so young, so naïve. What did I know?"

"Mother?"

"The pregnancy, it wasn't easy. It wasn't …. Natural …."

"What happened, Mother? Did he let you go after the baby was born?" Josephine quizzed, anxious to know all of it now, before time ran out, and she was left with only questions that would never be answered. "Did he keep the child?"

"Oh no, no child, I don't think he ever intended to let me go, and as for the child …. I don't know. I knew too much. He thought that he was oh so clever …. But he wasn't. He was careless, and eventually, that was my salvation …."

"The last time he came to see me, I was already in labor, the early stages. I tried my damnedest not to let him see the pain and the fear that I was feeling, but, he could tell and was gloating again. I could hear the glee in his voice, saying that everything was prepared and that he would come back for me, soon, but, like I said …. He got careless …."

"You escaped?"

"No, not exactly …." Andrea let out another shuddering breath. "Someone else found his hiding place. A woman. His wife ..."

"Oh my God …."

"She had followed him, frightened that he was having an affair."

"Poor woman!"

"Yes, poor woman. She got more than she bargained for, finding me, eight months pregnant and in labor, and her husband keeping me prisoner …."

"What happened?"

"When she saw me, she seemed to grasp the situation immediately. Her face …. I will never forget her face …. So kind. So lovely. Such love in it …. For him, despite the terrible things that he had done. I will never forget how relieved, how grateful I was to her …."

"She helped you?"

"Yes, she helped me. She guided me through dark tunnels. I don't really know where he had kept me, and I was in so much pain, with the labor, my mind cloudy from all the drugs …. I didn't take that much notice of where we were going. By the end of it, I was so weak, I could hardly walk. All I know is that one minute we were below ground, the next, I could feel the wind and snow on my face, in my hair. Fresh air had never smelled sweeter …."

"I can imagine."

"I do remember her talking to me, so gentle, so understanding, and I realized that despite everything, she loved him. John. She kept saying that he was a good man, a loving husband and that all he wanted was a son. That he wasn't really a bad man. That what he had done had been in the name of love. Love of her …. That if I should blame anyone, it should be her, for the dream of a child of their own was hers too and he had only wanted to make her happy …."

"What happened then, Mother?"

"She told me that we were near to a hospital. St Vincent's. Only a few more yards to go, but it was too late. I couldn't make it inside, so, I gave birth, with her help …. To a …. Boy. January 12th, 1955, the coldest damned night of the year …." She stopped suddenly, closing her eyes against the painful memory.

"It's all right, Mother …." Josephine soothed, gently squeezing her mother's frail hand.

"He ….he was …." Andrea faltered again, her raspy voice trailing away.

"Mother?" Josephine frowned deeply, concerned by her mother's lack of strength.

"Oh God, Josephine , he was …." Andrea's face suddenly twisted in to a grotesque mask. "I don't know where that bastard got the seed to impregnate me with, but the child …. the boy wasn't …."

"Was he disfigured, Mother? Was he deformed?" Josephine asked softly, noting the revulsion on Andrea's face.

Under the circumstances, it would not have been surprising if there had been birth defects, Josephine surmised to herself.

"He …. wasn't …. _**Human**_!" Andrea expelled a deep breath. "He wasn't _**human**_. He looked …. unlike any child I have ever seen …." She spoke in the merest whisper now. "Oh God, forgive me …. forgive me! My first reaction was one of revulsion. How could I have given birth to _**that …. thing**_ …."

"Tell me, Mother …."

"He was …. different …. like …. like a little …. _**lion**_ cub! Tiny clawed hands, feet …. That face …. It broke my heart to look at him …."

"Oh Mother, how awful for you!" Josephine squeezed her mother's hand tightly.

"No! No child, not awful …." Andrea glared at her. "Because, when I held him, really looked at him, I saw that he was really quite beautiful. I saw his intelligence, felt his power, knew his soul …. I knew that _**I**_ wasn't worthy of _**him**_ …." Andrea paused for breath and Josephine watched in awe at the play of emotions on her pale, weary face.

"He didn't even cry when he was born, just made this soft sort of mewling sound, and he lay in my arms, looking up at me with the most incredibly beautiful blue eyes I had every seen, and I knew that I couldn't keep him …. Didn't deserve him …. That he had been born for some higher purpose, and I was not meant to have him to myself …."

"What happened to him, Mother?" Josephine demanded, deeply hurt by the look of love and awe that she saw on her Mother's face, directed at the son that she had lost, a look that had never been there for her daughter.

"She took him from me, to find something to wrap him in, to keep him warm, and while she was hunting around in the garbage looking for a scrap of rag, anything to wrap him in, I dragged myself down the alley, towards a flight of metal steps that led down to the basement laundry."

"I thought that I was dying, child, there was so much blood. I prayed I would die …. As I watched her looking for me, cradling him in a pile of filthy rags against her breast …. As I would never be able to hold him …. She called out to me …. must have known that I could not have gone far …."

"What did she say?" Josephine whispered, hardly able to believe what she had heard. No wonder her mother had not been able to speak of it all these years ,

"She said, my name is Anna, Anna Pater. I'll take your son to some place safe, to someone who will care for him …. somewhere away from John. If you change your mind and you want your son back, look for me, ask anyone in this neighborhood, they will know where to find me, to get word to me …."

Andrea closed her eyes and lay still and silent for a long moment, only the sound of her shallow, labored breathing evidence that she was even still alive.

"Mother?"

"I'm all right …." Andrea let out a long, deep, shuddering breath, and opened her eyes at last.

"What happened after that?"

"Well, by this time, it was snowing hard, and the child was beginning to fuss. I watched her hurry away in to the night, a part of me aching to call her back, needing to hold him, my heart breaking, but my mind reasoning that if was for the best, that I couldn't take care of him, could not offer him anything …. Yet knowing that I would never forget him …. Never love anything or anyone as much as I loved him …."

"But you never saw him again?" Josephine asked in a tight little voice. Andrea shook her head sadly. "Did you go to the police?"

"Of course not, child! Who would have believed me?" Andrea sighed deeply.

"But, what the man did to you was criminal …. outrageous …. Immoral!" Josephine raged.

"And he gave me the most precious thing that I ever had in my life. My son."

Josephine heard the words, and felt a stab of pain in her heart.

"How can you say that?" She gazed at her mother with incredulous green eyes.

"Because, it is the truth. _**He**_ was the most beautiful gift that I could ever have had. I only held him just that once, and I can't explain how, but, he was everything …."

"Do you remember anything after this woman, this Anna, took the child away?"

"Not much. I passed out, was found by one of the hospital orderlies and spent some time in the hospital. The doctors asked a lot of questions about the baby, but I told them that it had been born dead, that I didn't remember when or where, and I was so sick, no one was really interested in pursuing the finer points."

Andrea sank back deeper against her pillows with a weary sigh, and closed her eyes.

Josephine released her mother's bony hand then, and slipped off the bed, suddenly finding the room too hot and airless.

She walked over to the window, pulling back the drapes once more to stare, with unseeing eyes, out at the night, the steady fall of snow heavier now, the brass band and carol singers long since moved on.

"So-o-o-o, now you know …." Andrea's voice was soft, her breath rattling in her chest.

"Yes. Now I know," Josephine sighed deeply. "My God Mother, it's just so …. Incredible, mind boggling …."

"And every word of it the truth, child!"

"Yes," Josephine paused then, turning back to regard her mother with big, hurt green eyes. "And, I guess, after giving birth to a child such as that …. I was a big disappointment …." She said bitterly.

"That remark is beneath you, Josephine," Anger edged Andrea's voice now. "But I suppose you have the right. Believe this now, child, you were never a disappointment to me. Its just that letting _**him**_ go …. took all the love that I had …. there was just nothing left …."

"Not even for father?" Josephine asked in a low, hard voice.

"Not even for Edward," The old woman confirmed sadly. "I was always very fond of him, Josephine, always wanted to be, and tried to be a good wife. When I told him about the baby, my stepfather, he assumed the worst, and in a way, it helped …. Stopped him from asking too many questions," she let out another ragged sigh.

"Your father was a good, loving man, and he understood. He was a fine husband and a loving and devoted father …. You …. you were at least one good thing I could bring to our marriage, and I was so happy when you were born, but then I remembered him …. How it felt to lose him, and I knew that if I got too close to you, and anything should happen to you …. The pain of that loss would kill me. I will always be grateful to Edward for the way that he looked after you, raised you, because I could not. It took every bit of strength I had just to go on living …. without him …."

"I know," Josephine sighed raggedly then. "I felt the same, about Amy, Jeff …." Tears streaming down her face now, Josephine turned to face her mother. "So, I have a brother. A half brother …." She sobbed softly. "He came first …. It's only right that you should love him more …."

"You don't have to be so …. damned …. reasonable about it, girl! Scream and shout and rant if you want to …."

"Why? What good would it do? It's not his fault that you could never love me."

"No," Andrea confirmed. "And, it gladdens my heart to hear you say it, because …. Josephine, I …. I want you to find him!"

"What?"

"Find him, please, find him …. and tell him how much I loved him …. regretted letting him go …. Promise me, Josephine, please!" Andrea pleaded raggedly.

"God, you've got some nerve!" Josephine sneered. "You really do! You lie there, telling me that I have a brother, and that losing him was the most God awful thing that ever happened to you …. that he is the reason why you could never love me …. and then you try to use my compassion, and my good nature …. You really do think so little of me!" She railed. "He really is _**all**_ you care about!"

"Not all …. I do care about you too. I want you to do this, but not just for me …. but for yourself, child! Don't you see …. You need to do this for _**you**_, because you will not be alone anymore!"

"That's rich!"

"But the truth."

"So you told me all of this for my sake? Well, thank you …."

"Promise me. Please Josephine, promise me!"

"But, for God's sake, you have no idea what happened to him …. anything about him …. even if he survived!"

"He _**did**_! I _**know it**_!"

There was such certainty and conviction in Andrea's voice now.

"I _**feel**_ it! Now _**promise**_ me!"

"All right, all right …. Calm yourself, mother. I promise," Josephine acquiesced. "But for _**me**_, not _**you**_ …."

"I don't care _**why**_ you do it …. _**just do it**_!"

"Fine. Now rest."

"Yes …. Now I can rest …." Andrea let out a deep, shuddering breath. "Thank you."

Andrea closed her eyes then and settled back against her pillows.

"Why did you tell me?"

"I wanted you to know it, from me. The truth of it. You see, when I'm gone, you will find things, documents, papers …. I didn't want you to find out like that."

"How considerate," her tone was edged with sarcasm now.

"So, the reasonable, ever pleasant child has a backbone after all. Good. You never really needed me, did you? You're stronger than you realize …."

"One thing I did inherit from you."

"Maybe," Andrea conceded.

"Rest easy now, Mother. I'll find your son, and pass on your message"

"Thank you."

Josephine walked back to the bed then, sitting down carefully on the edge, and took her mother's hand in her own.

"I'm sorry," Andrea choked out, her eyes fluttering closed now. "I wish it could have been different," she let out a long, deep, shuddering breath, and was suddenly still.

"Mother," Josephine, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, regarded the frail, doll like figure lying perfectly still in the centre of the brass bed. "Oh Mother …." She spoke thickly, knowing that her mother was gone. "Goodbye. I hope you find peace now. I love you …."

Without thought, Josephine gathered the old woman close to her, rocking her limp, lifeless body back and forth, as silent tears cascaded down her face, and harsh, rasping sobs wracked her slender body, grieving for the years of love and happiness that had been denied her because of this terrible injustice that had been done to her mother, this terrible violation, this horrific loss.

And then, her thoughts turned to the boy who had been abandoned.

Her brother.

Half brother ….

Was he still alive?

Andrea had been so sure ….

Could something like_** that**_ have survived?

What were the chances that a child like him could have been born in the first place?

And yet, he had been born.

If Andrea had been right about the way that he looked ….

Memory was a strange thing ….

Forty years on ….

She could have been mistaken. Shocked from her ordeal, drugged all those months, terrified and in pain ….

What if what she had really seen was a child with Downs Syndrome, or some other recognized deformity that had been less well documented back in 1955?

But Andrea had been so sure about what she had seen.

Josephine thought about what she had promised her mother, as she laid her lifeless remains back down gently on the bed, straightening a wisp of hair from her cheek with shaking fingers, caressing the still warm flesh.

To find him.

If he was still alive.

What good would it do Andrea now?

Maybe nothing ….

But it would do Josephine a power of good, for no matter what he was like, handsome, ugly, good or bad ….

She had a brother.

There was another soul on this earth, somewhere, that she was connected to.

And she would never be alone again.

They would have each other.

And she would be able to provide at least some of the answers to the questions that he must surely have.

Her mother had set her an almost impossible task.

Forty years ….

Forty years next month ….

Surely the trail would have gone cold after all that time?

But Josephine knew that she must pursue it, had to try to find him …. or at least try to discover what had happened to him, for her own peace of mind.

If she didn't ….

She would always wonder …. She would always regret it.

Poor Andrea ….

She had spent the remainder of her life looking for that unique _**something**_ that she had seen in the face of her new born son, had felt as something tangible ….

And had found her daughter a poor substitute.

Josephine knew that she should be angry, bitter ….

But she wasn't.

She was just relieved.

Merely gladdened to know that she did not walk this earth alone anymore.

Maybe ….

And if he _**was**_ alive?

She vowed that she would find him.

She would search for him, until her dying breath.


	2. Chapter 2

_**CHAPTER TWO.**_

Somewhere deep below the city, in a place few people even dreamed about, and fewer still actually knew existed, in a rock walled chamber lined with books, old and ancient, a small, bewhiskered, elderly man, open book in his hand, wire framed spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose, was suddenly shaken by a loud, primeval howl or torment that echoed from the very bowels of this secret world.

"Vincent …." The word escaped on a deep sigh, the sound of his son's anguish taking Jacob Wells back to a time when the younger man had been in such mental pain and turmoil, not so long ago that either of them could forget, but long enough for time to have healed all but the deepest hurt.

It had indeed been a long time since his son had cried out in such agony,

"Father," A familiar male voice broke into his thoughts a short time later, and Jacob Wells peered into the lantern and candle lit gloom of his chamber to find a young man called Eric, regarding him from behind thick spectacle lenses.

"Yes Eric?"

"Father, please come, I think Vincent is sick!"

"Yes, I heard, Where is he?" Father enquired, rising stiffly from his chair and leaning heavily against his trusted walking stick.

This late in the evening, most of the tunnel dwellers would be preparing for dinner, Jacob knew, or following their own pursuits.

"The Great Hall," Eric said softly, reaching out to steady the older man as he moved from behind his desk. "He and Cullen and Jacob were checking things out for the Christmas celebrations," The young man explained breathlessly.

"What happened?"

"I don't really know, Father , I wasn't there, but I ran into Mouse, and he seemed very worried , said something about Vincent looking strange, and that Jacob was frightened ..."

"Yes , I'm sure he was , I'll come now."

Jacob walked slowly and stiffly, holding out a battered old black physician's bag to the younger man, who accepted it, then steadied the older man with his free arm.

The journey down to the Great Hall was not so far, but filled with peril for a man of Father's age and impaired mobility, and he was grateful to have someone to lean against, usually Vincent himself, or his namesake grandson, Jacob.

As they slowly and carefully traversed the tunnels and passageways down to the Great Hall, Father was aware of the anxious tapping on the pipes, his fellow tunnel dwellers obviously anxious to find out what was wrong with their friend and protector, Vincent.

Messages were being relayed with great speed and efficiency, and Father knew that that could only mean one thing, Pascal was feeling better after his recent bout of 'flu, and was back at his station in the pipe chamber, supervising Alfie and Justin, his boisterous young apprentices.

Almost at journey's end now, Father and Eric very carefully negotiated the narrow flight of stone steps, descending down through the Chamber Of The Winds, towards the open doors of the Great Hall.

Past the worst of the perils on this journey, Father gently shook off Eric's protective grip on his arm, and made directly for the Great Hall.

Inside, he found that a few candles and kerosene hurricane lanterns had been lit, and there was evidence that a little carpentry work had been required to repair several old chairs and a large table.

In the gloom, his old eyes sought out and found the reason for his having made this journey.

Propped up against a narrow flight of wooden steps that were lined with faded old tapestries, Father could see his unique son, gazing around him with startled, confused deep blue eyes, the young boy kneeling beside him, cradling a big sharp clawed paw in his small hand, his father's intelligent blue eyes, full of love and concern, gazing back from his mother's beautiful face as he watched over his father, now regarding the crowd of curious and concerned onlookers, his beautiful red/gold mane falling in disarray around his powerful, broad shoulders, a frown marring the line of his unique, leonine countenance.

"Father," Vincent's soft, velvet tones broke the silence as he spotted the older man approaching. "There was no need for you to come," he sighed, unable to hide his embarrassment and guilt from his father's knowing eyes. "A lot of nonsense over nothing," he sighed again, although he made no effort to rise to his feet.

"I'll be the judge of that," Father scolded lightly. "Now I'm here, you'd better tell me what happened? Hit your finger with the hammer?" He arched an eyebrow quizzically, and tried to smother a smile as his little joke caused a snigger to burst forth from the lips of his young grandson.

"Er , no ..." Vincent replied disconcertedly.

"He sort of just stumbled back against the stairs, and looked kinda funny , then," his young grandson tipped back his head and let out a howl that was a reasonable imitation of his father's outburst a little while ago, and this too, made Jacob smile.

However, it was plain for him to see that the child had been worried about his father, for he did not let go of Vincent's large, furry hand , However, there was nothing unusual in that , Father and son shared a unique empathic connection that allowed each to know what the other was feeling , where they were , It was the same kind of bond that Vincent had shared for a time with the child's dear mother, Catherine Chandler.

"Mm , nice howl," Jacob Wells smiled, reaching out with a half gloved hand to ruffle the child's honey gold hair. "And I heard it, I think the whole of Christendom heard," Father rolled his eyes heavenward. "Can you tell me anything more?"

"Why do you not ask me, Father? I am here, and I am quite , recovered," Vincent sighed deeply.

"I told you, I would be the judge of that , although ," Father conceded softly, now. "You do seem perfectly well to me now."

"Thank you. May I get up?"

"What's stopping you, my boy?"

Vincent rose slowly to his feet, glad to feel that the previous dizziness had passed.

"All right everyone , let's get back to work!" Cullen, one of Vincent's oldest friends, coaxed the small crowd of co-workers back to their tasks, giving Vincent room to breathe, and Father a better chance to be sure that his son was indeed recovered from whatever it was ,

"Vincent , okay now?" Mouse asked, remaining after the others had drawn away, his anxiety evident in the small, shuffling movements that he made.

"I'm fine, Mouse," Vincent assured softly. "Why don't you and Jacob run along, I know that Mary wanted to measure Jacob for a new shirt."

"Dad?" Jacob regarded his father with clear, sky blue eyes, and Vincent felt a familiar tightness in his chest.

Would he ever get used to seeing Catherine staring back at him from their son's face?

Jacob was a wonderful boy, a great comfort to his father , a great source of love, amusement and joy.

Vincent was so proud of him, but there were times, like just now, for instance , when he so reminded him of the woman that he had loved, and lost.

He was five years old now, his birthday had been back in the Fall.

Had it really been five years?

Five years since Catherine had succumbed to the coma that still to this day consumed her body.

Sometimes it seemed like forever.

Sometimes it was still so fresh that it seemed like only yesterday.

Only Jacob's birthdays were real reminders of how long she had been lost to him , them , for Catherine, with just enough life and strength left in her to tell him of the miracle of their child's birth , had slipped away into the drug induced coma, in Vincent's arms, a scant hour after their son had been born.

At first, Vincent had believed that she was dead.

Had lovingly carried her home to her apartment, and stayed with her until dawn's golden fingers had illuminated the sky, and then he had returned Below, to break the news to Father.

News of Catherine's death, and the birth of a child.

Their child.

Taken at the very moment of birth, by the evil man who had held Catherine captive, against her will throughout the pregnancy, and had then remorselessly ordered her death.

It had taken many months of searching.

Many months of grief and heartache.

At the end of which, Vincent had reclaimed his son from the vile, Gabriel.

And discovered from the female investigator, Diana Bennett, that Catherine was not dead.

Merely in a coma.

Still beyond his reach, but with a heart that continued to beat in her chest, pumping blood around her lifeless body, keeping her organs and her brain alive.

Not a corpse, laid to rest in that casket that all her friends had wept over at her funeral.

Not buried under the ground in the cemetery at the back of St Celia's church, where he had wept so many tears of anger, bitterness and grief over the months.

Still, it had broken his heart ,

To know that she was alive, but to never see her again ,

Until, Diana had made arrangements for Catherine to be moved to a private room in a hospital that Vincent could gain access to, in secret , with the help of Peter Alcott ,

And so had begun the many nights of sitting beside his deathly still beloved, holding her hand, telling her of their son's growth, his antics , reading poetry and telling her all about Father and their friends Below ,

Never giving up hope that some day, she might return to him ,

That she might fight her way back through the shroud of coma, to share the joy of their son's life with him ,

"I'm fine ," Vincent assured the boy, placing an affectionate hand on his small shoulder and squeezing gently.

"Yes." Jacob replied knowingly, able to feel the strength returning to his father.

"It's getting late young man. Shouldn't you be thinking about getting to bed?" Vincent suggested, knowing that the boy would think about if for five minutes, then bury his nose in a book for another hour or so, time and chores completely forgotten ,

The boy's thirst for knowledge was unquenchable.

Catherine would have been very proud of him ,

Vincent was suddenly appalled with himself.

When had he started thinking of her in the past tense?

No , She was still alive , and if she could be reached , one day , _**he**_ would bring her back ,

Catherine _**was**_ proud of the boy ,

"Why don't you run along with Mouse." Vincent gave the boy a gentle push, then swatted his behind affectionately. "I'll be along soon , and I want to see your chamber neat as a pin , and you all washed up, teeth cleaned and tucked up in bed ,"

"Ah Dad ,"

"Vincent , miracles take time ," Father chuckled softly, watching his grandson march away in disgust, Mouse trailing behind him.

"So does his bedtime routine ," Vincent smiled softly. "I have never known anyone procrastinate so ,"

"Then you've forgotten how you used to drag your feet and hang your head and plead for another chapter or two of Dickens, or Kipling ," Father reminded, his voice soft with affection. "Vincent ,"

"I am all right, Father , really." Vincent assured. "As I said , a lot of fuss about nothing ," But to Father's practiced eye, it was clear that something was still amiss , there was something in the younger man's familiar deep azure eyes.

"Tell me." Father invited, preventing Vincent from walking away by placing a hand on his broad shoulder.

It was hard to believe that he would be forty next birthday , only a few weeks away now.

Forty years.

They had had their ups and downs , like any father and son ,

This unique man had done a considerable amount of living in those forty years too , more so than Father had thought when he had first seen the babe , and recovered from the initial shock of his unusual appearance.

Forty years old.

He wore it well.

Still broad chested and broad shouldered, lean and muscular , his hair was still that glorious red/gold color, fluffy and falling in a straight curtain down past his considerable shoulders , only these past few weeks had Father begun to notice the odd grey whisker on his rough cheek, chin , but the unique lion's features remained unlined, unblemished by the passing of the years, and his eyes were clear, still that beautiful shade of sky blue, shrewd and intelligent ,

He kept himself fit too , taking a pride in his athleticism and stamina ,

He needed it too ,

To keep up with that little imp, Jacob.

"It was nothing ," Vincent reassured.

"It was a very loud _**something**_ ," Jacob Wells sighed deeply.

"I am sorry Father , if I worried you ,"

"Vincent, I have worried over you every day for the last forty years , I can't stop now , Come, help me back to my chamber. We'll have a cup of tea, a game of chess , a little chat , That should give young Jacob time to prepare for bed ," Vincent nodded in resignation.

With forty years experience of dealing with Father, he knew when it was pointless to argue with him.

He slid a steadying arm through Father's and after bidding a good evening to his friends and co-workers, escorted the older man out of the Great Hall, keeping a firm grip on his arm as they carefully scaled the stone steps back through The Chamber Of The Winds, and then slowly, in deference to Father's age, made their way back through the familiar labyrinth to Father's chamber.

"Well my boy , are you ready to tell me what happened?" Father asked, as they slowly made their way.

"I am not really sure myself, Father ," Vincent confessed, sighing deeply. "One moment I was perfectly well, and everything was fine , the next ," He shrugged absently.

"You've been feeling quite well lately?"

"Yes."

"Nothing , unusual happened?" Father quizzed.

"No Father." Vincent sighed deeply again, knowing what Father was alluding to , the darker times, just before Catherine's disappearance , the breakdown that had resulted in the loss of the empathic link with Catherine , and with it, his ability to protect her , save her , "Nothing like that ,"

"Good , So?"

"So , I don't know how to explain it."

"Try."

"It was , a pain , no , not a physical pain as such ," He hurried on, noting Father's concerned expression. " I told you that I did not know how to explain it ," He rolled his eyes expressively in exasperation. " , like a , piece , of my soul , was suddenly ripped from me ,"

"A piece of your soul?"

"I know , not very eloquent , but the only adequate words I have , like something inside of my soul died , It was a very real pain , took my breath away, and made me quite dizzy , but at the same time , I knew that I wasn't sick ,"

"And the howl?"

"An instinctive reaction , marking a passing, I suppose?"

"A death howl?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm glad to see that there are no long lasting effects." Father smiled softly.

"I am sorry that you had to come all this way for nothing."

"Nonsense. I came because I thought that you needed me."

"I will always need you, Father , I love you." Vincent pressed a soft kiss to Father's rough cheek then.

"Get away with you ," Jacob Wells fussed, but it made his poor old heart feel light again. "Vincent , I see so little of you these days , you would tell me, if all was not well, wouldn't you? I don't want you to think that you have to spare me the burden of worrying , I do anyway! When I don't hear from you, I worry more ,"

"I have been keeping busy with the arrangements for Christmas , and after that, there will be Winterfest of course ,"

"But before that , your birthday." Father reminded gently. "A special birthday , your fortieth."

"Don't remind me , Pascal and Mary and William have all been after me to know what, if any special arrangements, I want, to mark the occasion." Vincent sighed forlornly, and Father frowned.

"And what did you tell them?"

"Nothing. I will spend the day as I always do, quietly, with my son and my family."

"Spoil sport." Father chuckled. "You'd do us all out of an opportunity to party , why don't you think about it some more ," Father encouraged.

"I do not need to. I do not want any fuss."

"Why?" Father's tone was belligerent now.

"Because it is just another day, Father."

"No it's not." Father protested. "It is a day to celebrate, Vincent , Forty years , Forty years my boy, which you have survived , when I wasn't sure you would survive for forty minutes!"

"Forty years since my birth , since I was abandoned , left to die ," Vincent pointed out. "Why should I want to celebrate _**that**_?"

"Because you were found, saved, _**did**_ survive, despite all the odds against it , and you have lived for those forty years my boy , take a look at young Jacob and tell me that you haven't lived , loved , please, allow us all the pleasure of celebrating the continuation of that unique life ,"

"All right , I will think about it." Vincent sighed deeply. Father still knew which buttons to push to make him feel guilty , and ashamed of his selfishness.

They had reached Father's familiar chamber now, and Mary was there with cups of hot steaming tea and a worried expression on her face.

She and Jacob Wells had been married for just over three years now, but she still acted like a new bride around him when she was worried after his health and welfare.

It amused Vincent to see the way that she fussed over Father, for under her tender ministrations, Jacob Wells was a different man, losing all his bluster and confidence, and dropping the role of wise old Patriarch.

Mary had loved Jacob Wells for a very long time, and he Mary , but both of them had stubbornly refused to acknowledge how they felt , about each other , to each other ,. until Catherine Chandler's disappearance, and subsequent incapacitation, and their concern for Vincent had pulled them together, seeking comfort and solace in each other's company , and finally acknowledging that there was something true between them.

Fear of losing Jacob Wells to another woman and a life Above had finally persuaded Mary to confide in Vincent , and then to follow her heart.

She had been greatly rewarded since then, with Jacob's love, and acceptance, and the warm way with which she had been welcomed in to the fold by his unique son and grandson.

_**All good things come to those who wait ,**_ Mary had told Vincent on her wedding day, looking happier and more radiant than Vincent could ever recall. Jacob Wells had looked pretty pleased with himself too, Vincent recalled , and for the most part, they had been happy together.

"I'd better go and check on that son of mine , I'll leave you in Mary's capable hands, Father ,"

"What about our game of chess?" Father reminded.

"Another time, Father , Mary , did Jacob come to be measured for his new shirt?"

"Yes , he left about ten minutes ago." Mary smiled benignly at the lionhearted giant who was as gentle as a lamb with his precious son.

"Thank you. I had better go and check that he has done his chores. Good night, Father , Mary ,"

"Goodnight Vincent ," They said together, then smiled softly at each other, as Vincent took his leave, via the four metal steps that led to the vestibule.

"Is he all right, Jacob?" Mary asked with genuine concern when they were alone at last, knowing how deeply her husband cared about their protector and guardian, and how deeply he loved him.

"Yes ,"

"But ,"

"It was nothing , or so he says , nothing to worry about." He assured softly. "Nothing for _**you**_ to worry about at least ,"

"I was worried about _**you**_, Jacob, trekking all that way ,"

"I had to be sure ,"

"I know , I remember how it was then too ," Mary sighed deeply.

"He's all right , really, my dear, and so am I , I still have enough energy to chase you around the bedchamber ," He winked cheekily.

"Huh! In your dreams, Jacob , you'll be asleep in your cocoa before you even reach the bedchamber!" Mary chuckled softly at the look of outrage on his still handsome, bewhiskered face. "But it was a nice thought, Jacob ..."

"I'll soon show you ," Jacob chuckled, rising from his chair, reaching out to pull his wife in to his arms, planting a wet kiss full on her sweet lips. "The body may be a bit on the slow side , but my mind is as active as ever , Would you like to know what I am thinking, dear wife?"

"Jacob! Really!" She flushed a becoming shade of pink, and pressed a soft kiss to his bewhiskered cheek. "Your tea is getting cold ,"

"Damn the tea ,"


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE.**

Andrea Martha Reeve's funeral was a solemn affair, attended by a few close friends, Dr Patrick O'Shea, representatives from her firm of lawyers, and of course, Josephine Grayson.

The cemetery was a cold, bleak place, fresh snow having been moved to make access to the grave easier for the mourners, but the ground was as hard as iron, as they lowered the casket containing Andrea Reeve's frail remains into the grave.

Only Patrick O'Shea and Walter Jenkins, her mother's aged attorney accompanied Josephine back to the house after the ceremony, and Jenkins stayed only long enough to fulfill his duties in the reading of Andrea's will.

No surprises there.

Andrea had left everything to Josephine, and named Patrick O'Shea as executor.

There were a few token legacies to the household staff, a few larger donations to Andrea's favorite charities.

But, in the main, the majority of the estate went to Josephine, along with a letter, penned in her mother's bold, flowery hand, instructing her on how she wished Josephine to divide the spoils between herself and her half brother, should she find him alive and well.

"God, I don't think I'll ever be warm again," Josephine shivered, tipping a large balloon brandy snifter to her lips. Patrick too had accepted her offer of a snifter to chase away the chill, after Attorney Jenkins had left them, and they had sat quietly, both lost in thought, in the cozy armchairs on either side of the fireplace in the drawing room.

"Go easy with that, Josie," Patrick advised sagely. "I know that you're not used to it ...."

"Correct. I have absolutely no tolerance for alcohol at all. It should be an interesting evening ...."

"Can't you tell me what weighs so heavily, my dear?" He asked casually, but she could see the concern in his watery blue eyes.

"Well Patrick, hang on to your hat, because I have something to tell you ...."

"Go on," he invited, watching as she took another sip of the warming dark amber liquid.

"I .... I have a brother ...." It came out in a rush. "Actually, I have .... a half brother .... if we are being precise .... He'll be forty in about three weeks time ...."

Josephine could feel the alcohol seeping in to her blood, driving the chill from her bones at last.

"I know that Andrea had a child before you, my dear, but, I don't know any of the details."

Josephine regarded him with obvious surprise for a moment then merely nodded.

"You were her doctor, of course you would have known. As to the details ...." She paused briefly, pondering on whether to tell him the truth, or the half truth that her father had always believed. "She was raped .... by her stepfather .... She was only seventeen at the time," she confided then, setting down her half empty brandy glass on the mantelpiece.

"Oh Lord! Poor Andrea. No wonder .... What happened to him .... the child?"

"She .... gave him to someone else to care for .... someone .... I don't know .... some kindly stranger .... I guess she wasn't exactly thinking straight ...."

That was as close to the truth as he needed to know.

"Why are you telling me this, Josie?"

"Well, the letter that Mr Jenkins gave to me earlier contains certain instructions, which you will need to know about later, but the main reason is because I made a promise, to mother, that I would try to find him ...."

"But surely that's going to be next to impossible ...." He pointed out, draining his brandy glass. "You know that I will help you as much as I can, but, you must know that it's almost impossible ...."

"Yes ...." She conceded softly. "But I did promise, and you know me, when I make a promise ...."

"Don't do it, Josie. You could be letting yourself in for a lot of pain and heartache."

"Maybe, but I can't just let it go, Patrick. Don't you understand? I'm not alone in the world anymore. I have a brother. He may have a family. I could have lots of nieces and nephews running around out there ...."

"And there are also several hundred thousand cranks and weirdo's and nut cases out there. If any of those get a whiff of the kind of money you're sitting on .... No. I think you're just asking for trouble ...."

"Thank you for the warning, and I hear what you are saying .... but ...."

"You're still going to try to find him," Patrick concluded for her on a soft sigh, rising stiffly from his seat beside the cheerful fire now, to press a soft kiss to her flushed cheek.

"I wish you the best of British luck, Josie. You're certainly going to need it."

"Thank you, Patrick, and goodnight."

She made to rise then, but he stilled her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"I'll see myself out my dear, but promise me that you will be careful."

"I promise."

"Call me if you need anything."

"I will Patrick, and thank you again, for today. Your being there made it so much easier."

"You're welcome. I'll stop by and see you sometime next week. We'll talk about your plans for the house .... the rest of the estate .... and honey .... maybe you should have another brandy, and then get a good night's sleep ...."

"Doctor's orders?"

"Yes," he smiled softly.

"All right, but I'd rather have cocoa than the brandy," she smothered a small yawn with the back of her hand.

"Goodnight, Josie."

"Goodnight, Patrick."

/a\

The following day, Thursday, found Josephine Grayson hitting the streets of New York, her mind made up to pursue her quest to discover her half brother.

Firstly, she called in at the offices of an old friend of her father's Arnold Baker, a private investigator of high principle and good reputation that her father had sometimes used.

He was a large, rotund, red faced man with a fast receding hairline and a penchant for fat Cuban cigars and strong liquor.

His big, meaty hand swallowed her smaller one in a friendly handshake, as he invited her to take a seat in a battered old dark brown leather wing backed chair.

His office was old and shabby, having lacked a woman's touch these past twenty years, and smelled of old cigar smoke and even older whisky spills, and was lined with dusty old shelves full of even dustier old law books, which probably hadn't been opened since the end of the second world war, which was probably when Arnold had taken up residence.

Of course, it had been twenty years since her father had dealt with him, and although his standards in office cleanliness were none of her business, she did not think that his reputation as an investigator had changed. Her father had always spoken very highly of him, had both liked and respected the man in a professional capacity, and had found him a rather interesting character outside of their working relationship.

Arnold Baker eyed her with undisguised interest until she explained who she was, gently reminding him of the distant friendship with her father, whom he immediately remembered with fondness and equal respect, before going on to explain what she wanted, telling him only the barest details, and asking him candidly how he could help her to achieve her goal.

"Well, for starters ...." His accent was thick Queens, a fat, unlit cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth as he spoke, drool running down his grey stubble covered chin. "I can get someone to check out this John and Anna Pater. Check the register of births, deaths and marriages. Who knows, we might just get lucky. One of them might even still be alive ...."

"I guess that's a start, but I would prefer you to handle this personally, Mr Baker."

"Okay ...."

He rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth before continuing.

"Then we can try to check the records of adoption agencies. If the Pater's didn't legally adopt the child themselves, someone else might have ...."

"Good idea ...."

"But, you know what I would suggest? If you don't mind throwing a little money around ...."

"How little money?" She asked dubiously.

"Enough to say, put up a small reward for information, then flood the streets with fliers, and run a major campaign in the newspapers ...."

"I'll have to think about that, Mr Baker. I don't want all and sundry banging on my door in the middle of the night ...."

She thought about what Patrick O'Shea had said about cranks and weirdo's and nut cases, and knew that he had been right.

"You wouldn't need to see or speak to anyone that you didn't want to doc. You could set up one of those anonymous hotline numbers or, if your in no particular hurry, there's always a good old fashioned post office box number ...."

"I will still need to think about it, Mr Baker. Do you have any suggestions as to how much reward I should offer?"

"Maybe ten grand ...." He plucked a number out of the air, chomping down on his cigar.

"Ten thousand dollars?" Josephine stared at him in disbelief.

"Yeah. Sounds reasonable. Not too much, and certainly not enough to encourage your major players and scam artists, but just enough to maybe coax someone with tight lips to open up a little, and be friendly ...."

"Ten thousand dollars is a lot of friendly, Mr Baker, but I guess it's worth a try. After all, it's only money."

"You want I should start looking into these Pater people?"

"Yes, and I'll want a daily report, Mr Baker, even if you haven't found anything. I want to see you. Don't come to my home. I will meet you wherever you want, but, I don't want you coming to the house."

"Okay. You're the boss."

Next, Josephine went to see her mother's attorney, Walter Jenkins, to set up a special fund for payment of the reward, and any other accumulated costs. He solemnly advised her against the good sense of embarking on such a venture, but in the end, agreed to do as she wished.

Her next stop was a printing establishment, where she ordered ten thousand copies of a reward flier which she designed herself, and then organized for their distribution throughout Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, Harlem, The Bronx, China town and the lower East Side, and then she took a sample of the flier to every newspaper in the city, and placed it in the personal column asking for it to be run every other day for two weeks.

If that didn't get someone's attention then nothing would, she thought with satisfaction, back home now, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her aching feet, as she curled up in an armchair beside the fire in the drawing room with a cup of tea.

At least it was a beginning.

And if that didn't work?

She would try again.

And again ....

And if the fliers and the newspaper campaign didn't work?

She would just have to think of something else.

Nothing short of a nuclear war could detract her from her path now.

_**If**_ her brother _**was**_ alive ....

She was determined that she would find him.

/a\

**THIS IS **_**NOT**_** AN ADVERTISEMENT**

**REWARD:$10,000**

**TO: ANNA PATER.**

_**(OR TO PERSONS WHO CAN PROVIDE INFORMATION AS TO HER WHEREABOUTS).**_

_**INFORMATION URGENTLY REQUIRED ABOUT - AND WHEREABOUTS OF - INFANT ENTRUSTED INTO YOUR CARE ON JANUARY 12, 1955 - OUTSIDE ST VINCENT'S HOSPITAL - NEW YORK CITY.**_

_**All information treated in the strictest confidence.**_

_**CONTACT:**_

_**DR J. GRAYSON ON:**_

_**555 – 6281**_

_**OR WRITE TO:**_

_**P.O. BOX: 22385**_

_**NEW YORK,10046. N.Y. U.S.A.**_

/a\

Amos Buckley absently reached out for the cup of coffee that his wife Alice had just refilled, and flicked over the page of his morning newspaper.

"Ouch! Damnation!" He suddenly exclaimed, having poured the scalding liquid down his pristine white shirt front, distracted by the bold lettering of a declaration of an offer of a reward on the page before him.

"Amos?" Alice frowned at her husband. He wasn't usually so clumsy. "What is it, honey? Did we win the lottery?" She asked, only half teasing.

"No such luck!" Amos mumbled, using a dish towel to dry off the excess moisture from his shirt. "I have to see Jacob ...."

"But it's not our day to take vegetables," she reminded, then followed his gaze to the large notice, taking up a whole page in the newspaper. "Oh my ...."

"Yeah. How'd you like them apples?"

"Be careful Amos," she did not challenge his need to make the journey, only that he use the usual caution.

"I will."

/a\

A subway train thundered through the station, ground to a screeching halt, and disgorged its passengers, before moving off at speed.

The Great Sebastian was sucking on a Styrofoam carton of black coffee, washing down a stale bagel and cream cheese, before beginning his daily performance of magic and slight of hand, when he became aware of a small knot of people gathering around one of the concrete support panels along the station, their attention drawn to a new notice being pasted to the pillar by a small dark haired man in scruffy dark brown overalls.

Ever curious, Sebastian sauntered over to join the edge of the small group to see what all the fuss was about, and almost choked on the last morsel of his bagel as he read the notice printed in large, bold black letters.

He soon spotted another, then another, further down the station platform, and with years of practice at slight of hand, picked up one that the janitor had dropped and secreted it about his person.

This morning's performance would have to wait. The world weary commuters other amusement to find, for The Great Sebastian suddenly found that he had urgent business elsewhere.

/a\

Leah Talbot, a petite, slender woman in her late fifties, graying hair styled neatly in a tight bun at the back of her head, dressed stylishly in demure dark blue suit and pale blue blouse, tan stockings and sensible black leather shoes, alighted from a yellow cab and walked the short distance to the storefront, her key in her hand.

_**TALBOTS BOOK STORE**_ wasn't the most jumping joint on the block, but her father had managed to make a good living from good quality second hand books and so was Leah.

Books had always been her life, her friends, and her family. Her children.

She loved all of them. Every genre. Every style.

Sometimes it broke her heart to part with these old friends, but, she always knew that they were going to people who would love them as she had.

She had her mind on a request for a special volume of poetry that Jacob Wells had sent for, via another helper called Gladys Bishop. He wanted something extra special for Vincent's fortieth birthday.

Leah pushed open the glass fronted door with the bold gold lettering, and stumbled over the mail and the morning newspaper lying on the door mat. She bent very carefully to pick up the pile of brown and white envelopes, giving the newspaper headlines only the most cursory glance, before engaging the lock on the door. She did not want customers walking in while she was out back making coffee, not that anyone would be interested in buying a book this early in the morning ....

Coffee mug in hand now, shoes slipped off for comfort, perched on a rickety old stool behind the counter next to the cash register, Leah slowly sipped her coffee and absently flicked through the newspaper, _**THE NEW YORK TIMES**_, wondering why she still bothered to have it delivered, when she saw the reward announcement. It shouted at her, in bold black print, taking up a whole page just before the lonely hearts, situations vacant and accommodation to rent and her thoughts instantly returned to Jacob.

Without further thought, Leah ripped the page out of the newspaper, jammed her feet back in to her shoes, heedless of the corns and bunions which had been giving her so much trouble of late, and turning the sign around to _**CLOSED**_ on the front door, slipped out to the back room and down the stairs to the cellar ....

/a\

Josephine Grayson sat back from her untouched breakfast with a satisfied little smile, her concentration on the full page announcement of the reward in _**THE TIMES**_, _**THE HERALD**_ and_** THE TRIBUNE**_.

It certainly commanded attention.

Now, all she had to hope was that somewhere out there in the city, someone's memory would be jogged and someone would come forward with some vital piece of information.

The fliers had been posted overnight and early this morning, in bus stops, subway stations, on hoardings, police bulletin boards, in libraries, museums and on the bases of every street light in the five boroughs, and she had even persuaded one cab company to post them in the backs of their cabs.

It was a start, for now.

She reached out for her coffee cup and took a sip. It was cold and very bitter, and she pulled a face, replacing the cup in its fine china saucer, just as Mrs Ludlow, her mother's, now her own housekeeper entered the room to remove the breakfast dishes.

Josephine got the distinct impression that the old woman, short, red faced and rotund, did not approve of her, her manner toward her cool, polite but aloof.

Still, she ran the house with almost military precision, and was a more than adequate cook. Her husband looked after household maintenance, and was also expected to drive her mother's Mercedes, chauffeuring the lady of the house around town.

The elderly couple had not been employed when Josephine had lived at home, but they appeared to be well ensconced when she had returned at her mother's bidding at the end of September.

Maybe, in time, Mrs Ludlow would accept her, but in the meantime, Josephine wouldn't hold her breath.

"There is a telephone call for you, Dr Grayson," her tone was cool as she imparted this piece of information. "A Mr Arnold Baker."

"Thank you, Mrs Ludlow."

"Something wrong with the food, doctor?" The elderly woman surveyed the barely touched food on the table.

"No. I'm just not very hungry. Thank you, Mrs Ludlow."

Out in the hallway, Josephine picked up the telephone receiver, her heart hopeful that he might have some good news for her.

Of course, it was still early days.

_**Give the man a break, Grayson, he's only been on the case a day! **_ She scolded herself silently.

"Good morning, Mr Baker."

"Doctor. I see you took my advice after all. Nice spread."

"Thank you. Do you have any news?"

"Maybe."

"Where shall we meet?"

He gave her the address of a deli close to his office, and asked if they could meet there at noon. Josephine readily agreed.

"Any response to the announcement?" Baker asked around a mouthful of cigar.

"I don't expect anything in the mail just yet, but I am hoping that someone will call the hotline number I had set up."

She had hastily rented a grimy little office, just off Central Park South, over a Chinese restaurant, and had hired two middle aged ladies to man the telephone line.

These ladies would take details from callers and pass on the information to Josephine, who would then weed out the cranks and the chancers and the time wasters, until, hopefully, she came across someone who could genuinely help her.

"Good luck. See ya at noon," he hung up abruptly, and Josephine let out a long deep sigh of frustration.

It was a long time until noon, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything until she had heard what Baker had to say.

"Will you be wanting luncheon, doctor?" Mrs Ludlow asked in a soft voice, her hands full with coffee pot and china cup and saucer.

"Not today, thank you, Mrs Ludlow."

"Very good, doctor."

"But I will be in for dinner. Something light I think, this evening, Mrs Ludlow, and Dr O'Shea may stop by ...."

"Very well, ma'am."

Josephine went back in to the drawing room then, and sat at the Mahogany writing bureau, staring out of the window at the street outside.

The temperature had gone up, and the snow was beginning to thaw, a constant, steady dripping coming from the eaves and the window sills.

She let out a soft sigh.

There were a hundred and one things that she could be doing, sorting through her mother's belongings, papers, writing brief messages of gratitude to the people who had attended the funeral, sent flowers and good wishes, even donations to Andrea's favorite charities ....

But it was still too soon.

If she didn't have this business of seeking out her half brother to occupy her mind, she knew that she would have gone crazy.

And Christmas was only a couple of days away.

It meant nothing to her this year.

She had no-one but Patrick O'Shea to buy gifts for, and no-one to buy her gifts in return.

There was nothing worse than being alone at Christmas.

Half the suicides recorded in a year happened over the holidays, like Christmas, New Years, and Thanks Giving.

At least she had a small hope that_** this**_ would be the last Christmas that she would spend alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR.**

Jacob Wells regarded Amos and Sebastian, two of his oldest and dearest friends, and long time helpers to the community Below, with undisguised confusion.

He was happy to see them both, although he hadn't expected to see either of them until Winterfest.

However, Jacob could see that there was obviously something very wrong.

Amos was pacing up and down, his face flushed, his hands jammed in the pockets of his suede coat.

Sebastian, also anxious, and breathless, had subsided in to one of the chairs beside the chessboard, and was mopping his brow with a shabby old white handkerchief.

"Mary, my dear, would you fetch us all some tea?" Jacob asked, smiling kindly at his wife, noting the worry in her eyes.

"Of course, Jacob," she smiled back, although she was more curious to know what had brought these two old friends to their chamber this morning, than she let on.

She had a horrible feeling that no good could come from this unexpected meeting.

As Mary left their chamber, she came face to face with another old friend, Leah Talbot, or the Book Lady as she was affectionately known to all the children Below.

The two women greeted each other with smiles and brief, fond embraces, but Mary could see the same concern in Leah's brown eyes, as she had noted in Amos and Sebastian's faces.

She knew that it could only mean one thing.

Trouble.

Their world was once again teetering on the edge of some nameless peril.

Mary looked back in to their chamber, watching Jacob as he greeted Leah affectionately with a gentle hug and a brief peck on the cheek, and wondered what lay ahead.

And if her Jacob was strong enough to cope with it.

She wondered if she should send for Vincent.

If there was danger ahead, he should know of it too.

She knew that he was taking his Jacob and a few of the other children down to the Crystal Cavern, but if she could get to Pascal, and get him to send a message on the pipes, before the expedition got too far, Vincent would turn back straight away.

Jacob suddenly noticed Mary loitering in the vestibule, and frowned. It wasn't like her to be so tardy.

"Tea, Mary," he reminded her with a kind smile, and a gentle waving motion of one of his hands.

"Should I fetch Vincent?" She asked in a rush.

"No!" Amos Buckley spoke in a loud, authoritative voice, looking at Jacob Wells with a very strange expression on his craggy face.

"It's no bother ...."

"There is no need," Leah Talbot added her voice to that of Amos Buckley's. "Really ...."

"Dear lady, do not concern yourself," Sebastian also found his voice now, and bestowed a warm smile on Mary. "I fear a conspiracy is afoot. Plans for a certain someone's special birthday, and we wouldn't want the guest of honor to know beforehand would we?"

This seemed to pacify Mary, although Jacob Wells regarded Sebastian with a deep frown.

"Conspiracy? Plans?" He quizzed, after Mary had departed. "What plans? What are you talking about, man?"

"I'm sorry Jacob, but I had to say something to dissuade Mary from fetching Vincent, at least until we had talked," Sebastian explained, looking very pale, and suddenly very old, Jacob thought to him self.

Jacob glanced at each of his friends now, people not much better off than most of the people who shared this world Below, who had devoted a lifetime to helping those less fortunate than themselves. It was mainly thanks to people like these that his world had survived. Thrived.

"Jacob ...." Leah Talbot came up and took him gently by the arm, guiding him toward the chair opposite Sebastian. "You'd better sit ...."

She gave him a gentle push, and he sat down in the big old chair, a frown knotting his brow.

"What is going on?" He sighed deeply, wondering if senility had begun to set in.

"I take it that you haven't seen this ...."

Amos Buckley reached in to his shirt and pulled out a folded sheet of newsprint, slapping it down on the table before Jacob with such force that a few black pawns tumbled over drunkenly on the chessboard.

Jacob reached out and carefully unfolded the full page from _**THE HERALD**_ and stared in wide eyed horror and disbelief at the words that jumped off the page at him.

His old heart began to pound erratically in his ears, and his hands began to shake.

"Oh my God ...."

"That's not all ...."

Sebastian pulled out the flier that he had swiped at the subway station, and placed it before Jacob Wells.

"Good Lord ...." Jacob gasped, all the color suddenly draining from his darkly bearded face.

"They're all over the place, Jacob," Sebastian told him in a concerned voice.

"What is happening, Jacob? Who could be doing this?" Leah asked.

"Why now? It's almost forty years, for God's sake ...." Amos returned to his pacing.

"Could it be a coincidence?"

"Some damned coincidence! Another kid, born on January 12, 1955, and abandoned outside St Vincent's hospital?" Amos railed. "I don't think so ...." He drawled. "And look at the name. Anna Pater. There's only one child that Anna brought to us for safe keeping ...."

"Vincent ...." Jacob whispered, aghast.

"Yeah. Vincent."

"Oh God ...." Jacob Wells moaned. "I always dreaded something like this ...." He buried his head in his half gloved hands, briefly. "After all these years, I had begun to hope that it was safe ...."

"Who else but us, Anna and John knew about Vincent?"

"Obviously someone. Maybe Anna, but more probably, Paracelsus, told someone about the child ...."

"No. Anna would never .... and John .... he was too obsessed with wanting Vincent for himself ...." Jacob reasoned.

"You're all forgetting one other person." Leah Talbot put in.

"We are?" Jacob frowned.

"Yes. The poor unfortunate who gave birth to Vincent ...."

"It's a little late in the day for an attack of conscience!" Amos ground out harshly. _**"Forty years**_ too late."

"You think that Vincent's .... mother ...." Jacob Wells marveled.

"Why not?" Leah suggested.

"After all this time?"

"Like I said, why not?" Leah sighed. "And maybe it's not conscience, but simple curiosity. If I had given up a child, I might be curious to know how he turned out ...." She reasoned softly.

"But she didn't give him up. She dumped him in the garbage and left him to die ...." Amos Buckley growled angrily.

"We don't know that, Amos. Not for sure," Jacob tried to calm his agitated old friend. "We only have Anna's word,_** her**_ side of the story. I have always suspected that there was more that she did not get a chance to tell me ...."

"Because_** he**_ poisoned her."

"There was probably more to_** that**_, than we are aware of ...."

"So, what do we do?"

"Do? We do nothing," Jacob spoke softly. There was resolve in his voice nevertheless. "We _**do nothing**_ ...." He reiterated.

"You would keep this from him?" Leah asked incredulously.

"Jacob, he has the right to know that someone is looking for him ...." This came from Sebastian now.

"No. He's been through enough ...."

"But Jacob, you know he's always been curious .... it's always bothered him ...."

"I know," Jacob conceded grudgingly.

"That's how come Paracelsus had so much power over him, feeding his uncertainty .... preying on his curiosity ...." Amos reminded. "And look what happened .... how it affected Vincent .... when Paracelsus made him believe that Anna was his mother .... that she had died in agony .... giving birth to him ...."

"Yes. I remember ...."

It had been a terrible time, causing Vincent to lose his tenuous grip on the delicate balance of his mind.

"Jacob, you have to tell him ...."

Leah placed a reassuring hand on Jacob Well's arm now.

"You know it. Sooner or later, he is going to see one of these damned things ...." She pointed to the newspaper and the flier on the table before him. "Or someone, in all innocence, is going to say something to him. Jacob, you wouldn't want him to find out like that. You wouldn't want him to think that you had deliberately kept it from him ...." She reasoned in a soft voice. "You say that we should do nothing, Jacob, but it is not _**our**_ decision to make. Vincent is the only one who can decide what to do."

"And we all know what he will decide ...." Amos Buckley sighed heavily. "If it were me, I would want to know .... "

"Me too ...." Sebastian concurred.

"And we all know what that could mean to all of us, here, Below ...." Jacob Wells sighed deeply, but he knew that his friends were right.

It had always been important to Vincent to know about the circumstances surrounding his birth, feeling it as a lack of continuity in his life, that he had no knowledge of the woman who had conceived him, nurtured him inside her body, only to delivery him, and abandon him.

It was only natural that he be curious.

But as there were no ready answers available to him, as he had grown older, and seeing the anguish and hurt it caused Father, Vincent had made a point of not pursuing the subject too closely.

Jacob acknowledged that curiosity, the boy's need, understood it ....

But what good could it do?

And why now?

_**Why now?**_

Jacob knew that the others were right, but he could only see pain and heartache and danger ahead.

This had been a burning need in Vincent for so long.

He would not be able to resist.

And that could mean the end of everything for those who had loved him and protected him for the last forty years.

Yet ....

How could he deny Vincent the one thing that he needed?

Answers.

A sense of completion at last.

A history.

A sense of belonging.

Of knowing how he came in to being.

Perhaps if he finally knew the truth, the demons in the night would no longer torment him with this possibility, or that possibility ….

Surely, to know the truth at last would finally bring peace.

Or maybe it would bring back the madness.

If Vincent could not deal with the truth ....

"Jacob ...." Leah's soft voice and light touch on his arm brought Jacob Wells back to the present.

"I'm all right," he assured her with a wan smile. "Thank you, all of you, for coming to me with this, first. I have a lot to think about. Leave me now, please ...."

"Be well, Jacob," Leah pressed soft, warm lips to his rough old cheek, her eyes full of concern for him, knowing that she would not be in his shoes at the moment, for all the money in the world.

"I'm sorry about this, Jacob, old man ...." Sebastian reached across the table and patted his old friend's hand affectionately. Poor Jacob. He looked utterly shell-shocked, and Sebastian knew that he would not trade places with him for the world.

"Why? It's not your doing, and I never was inclined to shoot the messenger, Sebastian," Jacob mumbled his mind in turmoil.

"If there is anything that we can do to help, Jacob ...." Amos Buckley offered in a voice rough with emotion, concerned by the polaxed expression on his old friend's face.

"Thank you. All of you. Go now, and please, spread the word around the other helpers that not a word of this should reach Vincent .... until I have .... I have spoken to him ...."

"Of course."

"Be well, Jacob."

The trio left together, just as Mary returned with a tray of steaming tea cups. They smiled weak apologies to the dear lady, and continued on their way without a word.

"Jacob .... tell me ...."

She set down the tray of tea things, and went to her husband quickly, squatting down beside him, fear in her eyes as she took in his shocked expression, and the tears welling up in his beautiful sapphire blue eyes.

"Tell me ...." She insisted, reaching out for one of his old half gloved hands. "Please Jacob ...."

"Oh Mary ...." Jacob leaned forward and dropped his head very gently on to her shoulder, silent sobs making his narrow old shoulders quiver and shake.

Mary gathered him in to her loving arms, cradling his shaking body, feeling his scalding tears soaking through the thin material of her dress, until, at last, he drew in a long, shuddering breath, and withdrew from her tender embrace.

"Now tell me ...." Mary invited softly, her eyes soft with love and concern for him.

"Here ...." He indicated to the table, where the page of newsprint and the flier remained.

Mary read each of them carefully, then let out a deep sigh.

"Vincent."

"Vincent." Jacob confirmed. "It's over .... I've lost him ...." He let out a deep, shuddering sigh.

"No, Jacob, no. You're the only father he has every known. This the only home ...."

"So you think I should tell him ...." He waved his hand across the table, causing the flier and newspaper to flutter in the soft movement of air.

"Of course. He needs to know the truth, Jacob."

"I know, Mary. But whose truth?"

"Jacob, all these years …. did you know more than you let on?" Mary asked gently.

"No," he assured her.

"Then you have nothing to fear from the truth. The truth will make him stronger. He needs to know, Jacob. It is the only legacy he has to pass on to his son .... and whatever happens, he knows that you love him .... that you will be here, when he is ready to come home."

"Thank you, Mary. I do .... love you .... so very much, my dear ...."

"I know that, silly, now, how about some tea? We seem to be swimming in the stuff."

"Actually, Mary, I think I'm going to need something a little stronger ...." Jacob smiled weakly, and patted her beloved, soft cheek affectionately.

"No you don't, Jacob," Mary assured. "You just need a good old fashioned hug ...." Which she proceeded to give him.

"Ah Mary .... thank you ...." Jacob sighed softly when she released him at last. "That is powerful medicine my love ...."

"Love is and always has been the best kind of medicine, Jacob," she blushed in a most becoming manner.

"Oh well .... Better get it over and done with, I suppose. The sooner he knows .... the sooner we will all be out of our misery ...."

"It just seems such a pity to spoil the children's outing ...."

"Yes .... the Crystal Cavern wasn't it?"

"Mm ...."

"It will still be there tomorrow .... next week .... next month .... Unfortunately,_** this**_ can't wait. I want him to learn of this from me. I owe him at least that much ...."

"Jacob, none of this is your fault ...."

"The Pater's were my friends, Mary. I brought John down here. I am responsible ...."

"No, you are not."

"I could have stopped him, Mary. I could see what was happening to him .... but Anna begged me to keep out of it .... to let him find his own way ...."

"You didn't know that he would murder her, Jacob. She was in his way too. I will be eternally grateful that he did not try to harm you ...."

"And I can't forget what he did to Vincent .... sewing the seeds of doubt ...."

"He only awakened what was already there, Jacob."

"Bless you, Mary ...."

"You'd better get on to the pipes, Jacob, before it is to late for them to turn back."

"Yes. Of course ...."

/a\

The small party of half a dozen children of different ages, ranging from eight to fourteen, Jacob and Vincent, had just reached the Chamber Of The Winds, there excursion having been delayed because young Jacob had been unable to find one of his boots.

His father was not in the best of moods with him, and both were unusually quiet and subdued.

Which also rubbed off on the remainder of the group.

They were a quiet and unusually solemn band of travelers.

Vincent let out a soft little sigh, knowing that he was going to have to lighten up a little, or this journey down to the Crystal Cavern would be no fun at all for any of them.

Just because he was out of sorts with Jacob, did not mean that he had to let it spoil the boy's friend's outing.

Vincent already knew that his son was sorry for delaying them.

He knew that Jacob was even sorrier for making his father lose his temper, sorry that he had spoiled what was meant to be a treat for himself and his friends.

With the painful lack of juvenile chit chat to distract him, Vincent easily picked out the message being tapped out on the master pipes.

_**Vincent. See Father. Urgent**_.

His brain rapidly translated the rapid fire series of metallic clanks and taps, without him consciously having to even think about it.

Vincent immediately came to a halt, the little band of travelers almost walking in to the back of him.

"What is it, Dad?" Jacob asked with a frown.

"Why don't you tell me," Vincent invited, seeing it as an opportunity to learn just how well Jacob was coping with learning the code.

From the vacant expression on his beloved young face, it was easy to see that he had been giving his studies a miss.

Vincent sighed again.

"Jacob, you promised," he reminded in a deep voice, pinning the youngster with a cool, blue gaze.

"I know, but it's too quick ...."

"Any alarm signal would be just as rapid, Jacob, would need to be. If there were a fire .... a flood .... you would want to know about it quick smart ...."

"I know _**those**_ codes ...." Jacob insisted, his tone belligerent. Unaffected by his attitude, and unconvinced by his words, Vincent continued to regard the child with a steady blue gaze. "_**I do**_!"

"Very well ...."

"The pipes said .... Vincent .... something about Father .... I mean Grandfather .... and important." Young Jacob rushed, wanting to impress his father.

"The message actually said, see Father, urgent ...." Vincent sighed softly. "But I suppose you got the general gist of it."

He reached out a half gloved hand and affectionately ruffled his son's soft, honey gold hair.

"I'm sorry. It looks as though our trip is off."

With rather less fuss than they would normally have made, the little band of travelers turned around and climbed the narrow stone steps back the way that they had come.

Vincent saw them all safely back to the home chambers, leaving his wayward son in the Pipe Chamber, with Pascal, who was still dabbing at his nose with an old blue and white spotted handkerchief, but who assured Vincent that he was feeling much better, and was no longer infectious .... for an unexpected lesson in code and translation by the Master Communications expert, before hurrying on to Father's chamber.

/a\

"Father, are you unwell?" Vincent asked, entering the room on long strides, and finding the older man standing in the centre of the chamber, leaning heavily against his walking stick.

Mary was conspicuous by her absence, and Vincent frowned.

"Your message said that you wanted to see me, urgently."

"Yes. Come in my boy. There's something that I think you should see ...." Father explained in a strange, tight little voice, somehow unable to meet Vincent's gaze.

Vincent frowned again.

"What is it, Father?" He asked in low, velvet tones, following the older man across the chamber toward the table where the chessboard was set up ready for a fresh game.

"Three of our oldest helpers, Leah, Amos and Sebastian, came to see me a little while ago ...." Father explained, somewhat stiltedly.

"How are they? Have they been well?" Vincent enquired politely.

"Vincent ...." Father stared at him in exasperation, and something else, Vincent noted.

Fear.

Worry.

"Tell me, Father ...." There was concern in Vincent's deep husky voice now.

"Vincent .... You know that I love you, that I have always tried to do the best by you .... to protect you ...."

"Yes Father ...." Vincent acknowledged, laying a gentle, reassuring hand on Father's shoulder. He was both surprised and worried by the emotion and the fear that he could hear in the older man's voice, and see in his familiar, deep sapphire blue eyes.

Something was very wrong ....

"What does that have to do with Leah, Amos and Sebastian?" He quizzed.

"They are the only ones left who .... who remember you .... as a babe ...." Father explained. "And they are the only other people, to whom, these ...." He indicated to two bits of paper lying on the table beside the chess board, one of which had been roughly folded, the other looking as if it had been crumpled up into a ball, before being opened out again. "Had any meaning ...." Jacob Wells concluded, stepping back to allow Vincent a better look.

The younger man immediately reached out for one of the full pages of newsprint, his eyes wide, reading each line very carefully.

Jacob Wells watched the play of emotions on his son's open, beloved face. Confusion. Anger. Bitterness.

Hunger.

"What is this? Some cruel joke?" He seethed.

"It is no joke, Vincent. Our helpers from all over the city have been sending me messages all morning. Apparently, the fliers are all over town, and the announcement of the reward was in every newspaper in town this morning."

"I do not understand ...."

"Me neither ...."

"What does it mean?" Vincent demanded on a low, throaty growl.

"What do you _**think**_ it means, Vincent?" Father sighed deeply.

"Someone .... someone is looking for .... _**me**_?" Father nodded gently, sitting down heavily in his favorite chair. "But how?" Vincent began to pace back and forth across the chamber, a habit he had acquired in childhood that he had never been able to break. "Why? It's been ...."

"Forty years ...."

"Surely everyone who was there at the time is ...." Vincent's voice trailed away.

"Dead?" Jacob arched an eyebrow at him.

"With the exception of yourself, Father ...."

"Oh, I'll agree. Most of the key players are long gone. With perhaps one exception ...."

Vincent regarded Father with cool blue eyes that were sparkling with anger and indignation now.

"_**Think**_ Vincent. Who else _**could**_ there _**be**_?"

"Anna ...." Vincent spat, breathing hard, his chest heaving violently as he prowled across Father's chamber. "Paracelsus ...." He snarled the name, a wildness in his eyes that Father had not seen in a very long time. "You ...." His tone held accusation now, as he span around and prowled back across the length of the chamber. "Who else, Father?" He demanded gruffly, wondering what Father had been keeping from him all these years.

"And .... the woman who gave birth to you, Vincent," Father pointed out softly, disappointment evident in his eyes, that Vincent could still harbor any doubt that the older man had not told him everything that he knew about his deliverance in to their world Below.

"My .... mother ...." The word came out on a soft breath, almost reverently, Jacob thought. "My mother?" Vincent blinked rapidly in confusion.

"It makes sense," Father sighed.

"After all this time? Why?" Vincent banged his fist down heavily on the table, causing the same black pawns to jump and tumble drunkenly that Amos Buckley's rough banging down of the reward announcement had done earlier.

Jacob Wells flinched.

_**"Why!"**_

"I don't know ...." Was all the answer that he had for his son.

He watched as Vincent withdrew, head bowed, hair falling to hide his face in a silken honey gold curtain as he stood, rooted to the spot for a moment, then resumed his angry pacing back and forth.

"What will you do?" He asked softly, after a lengthy silence, watching his son's anxious pacing up and down once more, anger and confusion evident in every stride and in every toss of his lovely mane.

"Do? Why should I _**do**_ anything?" Vincent growled angrily. "I have survived for forty years without her ...." He seethed.

"Oh come now, Vincent, aren't you just a little bit curious?"

_**"No!"**_ Vincent barked, his top lip twisting in to a snarl.

"I'm not convinced, Vincent," Father sighed deeply. "I _**know**_ just how important this is to you .... how long you have yearned to know the truth about who .... and what you really are ...."

"No! I am Vincent, _**that**_ is who_** I**_ am!" He roared.

"Do you know how difficult it was for me to bring you here .... show you these? I wanted to tear them up .... burn them .... throw them in to the abyss .... but my conscience would not allow me to do that, Vincent .... because I _**know**_ how badly you need to know the truth .... perhaps now is your chance ...."

"No."

"Yes, Vincent ...."

"No .... not again ...."

"That was a sick, mad man's version of the truth, Vincent .... half truths .... shadows .... lies .... John .... Paracelsus .... only told you what he wanted you to know .... to feed your sickness ...."

"And he succeeded!" Vincent snarled, revealing very strong, very white, very sharp fangs

"No .... no Vincent, never .... Your mother is the only one who really knows the truth .... and perhaps now, she is ready to share it with you ...."

"I am past caring ...."

"We both now that _**that**_ is not true ...."

"Father!"

"All right ...." Father acquiesced softly.

"I cannot believe that you would encourage me to pursue this ...." Vincent drew in several deep breaths in a bid to calm himself.

"It's not easy for me, Vincent, but it is the right thing to do. It's your decision. Think about it very carefully. The chance might not present it's self again, my boy. You owe it to yourself, Vincent, to find out the truth at last .... to be free ...."

"Free? Free! I will never truly be free! My mind has painted too many gruesome pictures over the years ...."

"Then wouldn't it be better to know the truth at last, Vincent?" Father reasoned.

"Your truth? John Pater's truth? Some nameless, faceless stranger's truth?" Vincent sneered.

"It's your decision, Vincent. I can't say I'll be sorry if you decide to let it go .... but _**you**_ might be sorry if you do ...."

"Let it be Father ...." Vincent sighed deeply, took in a long, deep breath, and then expelled it slowly on a low growl. "Let .... it .... be ...."

"As you wish, Vincent .... although .... if I were you .... I would find some comfort in the knowledge that somewhere out there .... someone is thinking of you .... maybe even cares what happened to you ...."

"Forty years too late ...." Vincent snarled, marching hastily out of the chamber.

"Have it your way ...."

Father sighed softly, listening to his son's angry footsteps as they carried him toward his own chamber, knowing deep in his heart that when he had calmed down, Vincent would reach the same conclusion as his father.

That he really had no choice.

This was his destiny.

And he couldn't hide from it any longer.

_**The truth will out, Vincent .... **_ Father thought silently to himself .... _**and the past catches up with all of us in the end ....**_


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE.**

**FRIDAY 16TH DECEMBER, 1994 - NEW YORK CITY****.**

Vincent rushed away from Father's chamber, his mind in utter turmoil, heedless of the walls that he was crashing in to, as he made his way to the comforting familiarity of his chamber.

_**"It was the 12th of January, the coldest day of the year .... He was brought to me, wrapped in rags ...."**_ Father's voice echoed in his mind as he rushed on.

_**"When Vincent first came to us .... he was very tiny, and very sick .... He cried for three straight days .... and no-one thought that he would survive ...."**_ The familiar story as Father had been telling it for the past forty years rang around in Vincent's brain. ___**"I felt the strength in him ...."**_

Breathing hard, Vincent staggered from rough stone wall to rough stone wall, reaching his chamber, his breath coming in ragged little gasps, shaking his head frantically to try to rid himself of the voices .... the memories ....

_**"No!"**_

_**"Are you content to accept Father's story?"**_ Paracelsus' voice, deep and sinister suddenly filled his head .... that evil .... twisted .... bearded face, sneering at him .... goading him ....

"_**Found as a babe outside St Vincent's hospital .... Did you .... Did you really believe that all these years?"**_

"No .... stop .... no ...." Vincent pleaded breathlessly, his heart thundering in his ears.

_**"I know the truth ...."**_

"He's dead .... dead ...." Vincent chanted like a mantra. "Dead .... dead .... can't hurt you any more ...."

_**"Aren't you just a little curious to know **_**why**_** you are, the **_**way**_** you are ...."**_

"Paracelsus is dead ...." Vincent began to pace.

_**"You were betrayed, Vincent ...."**_

"No .... must be strong .... can't let him destroy me this time .... not again .... no more!" Vincent roared, holding his head in his hands.

_**"You call **_**him**_** Father .... but it was I who found you .... wrapped in rags .... starving ...."**_

"No! No more .... no .... _** enough**_!"

_**"It was I who named you, Vincent .... and it was I who cared for you all those months ...."**_

_**"Stop!"**_

_**"Even Father didn't think you'd live. But I fed you .... bathed you .... and you **_**did**_** live ...."**_

"He's dead .... Paracelsus is dead .... " Vincent panted. "Can't hurt you ...."

_**"Don't you see, Vincent .... He wouldn't let me take you .... when I was exiled .... he made me leave you behind ...."**_

"Lies, Paracelsus .... all lies .... you .... have .... no power here .... no power now!" Vincent gasped raggedly, pacing back and forth.

_**"I loved you .... you were mine ...."**_

"Never .... never .... lies .... I did not believe you then .... I do not believe you now ...."

And yet ....

Despite Father's explanation of his version of the truth ....

Hadn't there always been a lingering doubt that Paracelsus had been telling the truth .... or at least part of it ....

_**"At last .... you **_**are**_** .... **_**my son**_** ..**_.."

_**"No!"**_

_**"I loved you .... you were mine ...."**_

"Anna was _**John Pater's**_ wife ...." His mind took him back, recalling in vivid color Father's face .... voice .... but Paracelsus' words ....

He could feel the anger as a tangible thing .... just as all consuming as that night .... that terrible night .... six years ago.

"Is it true then, Father .... was Paracelsus my .... _**father**___.... Father .... what have you done?"

_**"It was done out of love ...."**_

"The greatest crimes are always committed in the name of love ...."

In his mind's eye, Vincent watched the scene being played out before him.

_**"For a time .... it seemed so obvious .... but now ...."**_ Paracelsus, very cleverly disguised as Father, was manipulating Vincent with his words. _**" .... Dear God .... sometimes I feel so lost ...."**_

_**"NO!"**_ Vincent bellowed, breathing hard, holding his hands over his ears, but the voices would not stop .... his own angry, unreasonable voice .... Father's soft, dulcet tones .... speaking Paracelsus' vile lies ....

_**"The beginning was John. He and Anna had tried for so long to have a child, but it was impossible. The fault was in John. He was unable to father a child ...."**_

__"Yet Anna became pregnant ...."

_**"To Anna it was a miracle ...."**_

"No-o-o-o, .... no more .... stop ...." Vincent fell to his knees heavily, holding his head in his hands, but the images would not budge from his mind. "Please .... please ...." He sobbed raggedly. "No .... more ...."

_**" But John just smiled .... as if he knew what was going to ...."**_

"Go on."

_**"Vincent ...."**_

_"__**Go on!**_ Why didn't you tell any of the others?"

_**"I didn't think there was any need. I thought it was best not to frighten them ...."**_

"I was an infant. What could they have feared?"

_**"The unknown ...."**_

Vincent rolled over on to his side, drawing his knees up tightly in to his chest, his breathing labored, his eyes wide and frantic.

_**"Vincent, men are afraid of what they don't understand .... and they hate that which is different ...."**_

"Someone must have known .... Anna was pregnant ...."

_**"No .... no-one knew .... you see, Anna was .... Vincent, Anna was only in her third month when she went in to labor ...."**_

"Third month?"

_**"As soon as it began, I knew something was wrong ...."**_

"Lies ...." Vincent moaned, writhing around on the ground in torment. "Terrible lies .... all lies .... cruel .... lies .... deceit .... lies ...." He chanted, closing his eyes, clenching them tightly shut, but still he saw .... heard .....

_**"But I could never have imagined .... John was a genius, in his own way, but unorthodox .... even so .... no-one would have dreamed that he would perform medical experiments on his own wife ...."**_

"Did Anna know what he was doing?"

_**"Right at the end .... when she was too weak to scream any more ...."**_

"No ....no .... not true .... _** not true**_ .... Don't listen .... lies .... wicked lies!"

_**"She looked at John, and I saw the knowledge in her eyes ...."**_

"Stop .... please .... stop ...." Vincent pleaded raggedly, his face wet with tears. "No more .... no more ...."

Vincent clamped his hands more tightly over his ears, but still the voices would not be silenced.

"So Anna died in childbirth .... like Devin's mother ...."

_**"No .... not like Devin's mother .... no ...."**_

"Well then, how? _**How!**_"

"No-o-o-o-o-o, .... no .... please .... please .... not again .... not again .... no-o-o-o-o!"

_**"Vincent .... you were .... you were not born .... like other children .... you ripped your way out of your mother's body ...."**_

___**"No!" **_Vincent roared, pushing himself up on to his knees, so that he could crawl over to his bed. "It _**never**_ happened .... not like _**that**_ .... did not happen .... like that .... Paracelsus lied ...." He recited to himself over and over again, burying his face in the mattress on the bed.

He tried to recall what Father had told him .... the real Father .... not Paracelsus' shallow illusion .... about Anna's baby.

Yes.

Anna _**had**_ miscarried in the third month.

But that had been _**before**_ she had found him outside St Vincent's hospital. Several months before in fact.

It was utterly impossible that _**he**_ could have been _**Anna's**_ baby.

_**That**_ infant had died long before_** he**_ had even been born.

_**That**_ was reality.

He had to cling on to that .... if this nightmare was ever to end.

"Jacob ...."

"Oh no .... no-o-o-o-o .... not that .... _** not that**_ .... please ...." Vincent clawed at the mattress, his chest heaving violently, tears running freely down his rough whiskered cheeks. "I can't .... I can't .... not that .... _** no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no**_ ....."

He sobbed bitterly, burying his face in the soft, familiar patchwork that covered his bed, but it gave him no comfort, no respite from the onslaught of memories.

"Why did you let me live?"

_**"You don't know what you're saying, Vincent .... I remember the first moment I held you in my arms .... you were so tiny .... drenched in blood .... but .... I could feel the life in you ...."**_

"Death has its own power .... perhaps that is what you felt ...."

_**"You opened your eyes, and you looked at me .... you**_** knew**_** me, and I knew that something new had come in to the world .... that you were destined for unimaginable things ...."**_

"And it was up to you to see that nothing stood in the way of that destiny ...."

_**"Yes .... Oh yes ...."**_

"No matter whom you hurt? No matter how many lives were warped and destroyed by your lies ...."

_**"But they didn't matter. Don't you understand that? I mean .... they were ordinary .... unimportant .... but you ...."**_

"When will it end?" Vincent hissed, burying his face deeper into the patchwork blanket and covers of his bed. "Let it end .... please ...."

_**"No .... no .... you have to listen. You have to understand. Do you think it has been easy for me? You don't know the price I've paid for **_**you**_**. For years afterward, I could see her face .... hear her screaming .... sometimes, as I pass through the Chamber Of The Winds, I hear it still .... the screaming .... and the sound .... **_**you**_** made .... as you **_**tore**_** your way in to the world ...."**_

"Stop this .... stop it ...."

_**"No .... you must hear this ...."**_

"No more ...."

_**"Why do you resist your own nature .... where are you going, Vincent .... you can't run away, you know that. Oh yes, they tried to smother it with their piety, shame it with their little moralities .... but .... you can still hear the singing in your blood .... can't you? Can't you?"**_

"No .... no .... no, no,no,no,no, _**NO**_!"

_**"Don't fight it, Vincent. It's you. It's who you are .... it's what you have always been, since the moment you were born .... Good and evil .... these are human concepts. Let go of them, Vincent .... let the power fill you .... make you it's own ...."**_

"No-o-o-o-o-o .... no ..... nooooooooo .... _**NO**_!"

_**"All your victims knew the truth. Couldn't you see that in their faces? Couldn't you remember their eyes as they beheld you for the last time .... the smell of their blood on you hands .... Oh Vincent .... imagine the **_**taste**_** of it .... like copper .... and fire .... on your tongue ...."**_

Vincent saw again, all too clearly, the moment when his big, rough hands had pushed the man that he had truly believed at that moment was Father, Jacob Wells, backward, so that he fell across the desk, and in painfully slow motion, relived the moment when his powerful arms had delivered the death blow, rending the man's flesh .... in one moment of raw power .... anger .... and yes .... hatred.

"It's all right .... don't be afraid ...."

And then, Paracelsus, John Pater, had revealed his scarred cheek, his vile twisted face.

_**"At last .... **_**you are .... my son**_** ...."**_ His dying words.

A powerful leonine roar tore from Vincent's lips, as he saw again the expressions on Catherine's, Father's and Jamie's faces, as he had turned away from the horrific vision of Paracelsus', dead by his hand, and found them all standing just inside the vestibule, the two women supporting an obviously winded and injured Father.

The shock.

The horror on their faces as they understood all too well what he had done.

A cry that was utterly animal in it's quality, and filled with raw pain, leaving him spent, breathless and shaking, curled up in a tight knot of agony and misery .....

Until familiar strong arms pulled him roughly in to their comforting embrace.

"Father ...." Vincent sobbed bitterly. "Oh Father ...."

"I'm here .... I'm here .... I know ...." Jacob Wells soothed, tenderly pushing the hair back from his son's tear streaked face.

"Paracelsus ...." Vincent choked out thickly, his breath coming in soft little gasps between ragged sobs.

"It's over, Vincent .... over ...."

"No-o-o-o! It will never be over ...." The younger man sobbed in anguish. "Never ...."

"Yes, it will. When you know the truth, Vincent. When you can dismiss John's lies, half truths and concocted misinformation, with the truth."

Jacob Wells held his son close, feeling his shaking limbs and ragged breathing, knowing that this had been a bad episode.

Oh God ....

It couldn't be happening again ....

Not again ....

Dear God ....

Not again ....

Jacob Wells stroked his son's beautiful, fluffy red/gold mane with gentle, reassuring strokes of his gnarled old hand, muttering soothing nonsense, until Vincent's breathing grew more regular, and the sobs less violent in their force.

At last, Vincent drew away, his dear leonine face ravaged by the bout of weeping, his beautiful sky blue eyes still holding a trace of the fear, torment and anguish that he had felt during the onslaught of vivid recollections.

"I love you, Father ...."

"I know that, Vincent ...." Father patted one of Vincent's large, fur covered, half gloved hands affectionately. "And I think that you know what you must do, don't you my boy? If you no longer want to be at his mercy ...."

"I .... must .... discover .... the .... truth ...."

"Yes, and we will help you. All of us. We have a place to begin now, Vincent ...." Father reached up to smooth away the last of his son's tears with gentle thumbs, then patted his rough whiskered cheek affectionately.

"Yes," Vincent let out another deep, ragged sigh, reaching out roughly once more to pull Father in to his arms. "Oh Father .... what would I be without you ...."

"Sh .... it's all right, Vincent .... I am here .... I am always here ...."

"I know ...." Vincent sighed deeply, drawing away from Father reluctantly.

"We can find out who is looking for you, then it will be up to you what .... if anything .... you want to do with whatever we discover, but, Vincent .... for your own peace of mind ...." Father's voice trailed away then, and Vincent regarded him with sorrowful big blue eyes.

"I must do this ...."

"Yes. I believe that you must ...." Jacob concurred.

"I know ...." This in a quiet, infinitely sad little voice.

Vincent hung his head in despair then.

"I thought that I was over this. I did not think that he still had so much power to hurt me," he confessed, his voice a low, husky whisper.

"The only power he has .... is what you allow him, Vincent .... because .... somewhere, deep inside you .... a small part of you still wants to believe that what he told you was true ...."

"Yes ...."

Vincent took in a deep, shuddering breath then.

"Jacob ...." He looked up suddenly, his deep sad, lapis lazuli eyes wide with concern for his son now, his voice low and rough. "He must have been terrified ...."

Vincent knew that through their unique empathic connection, the young Jacob would have felt all the horror, agony and misery that his father had been feeling.

That was how the older Jacob had realized that Vincent needed him.

Mary had collected Jacob from Pascal, after the little man had sent Alfie to her, to tell her that Jacob was behaving strangely, staring catatonically, and unresponsive to Pascal's voice, as he called out for his father.

Mary had taken the boy straight to her husband, and one look at his grandson had been enough for Jacob Wells to know that Vincent was in the grip of some terrible nightmare, waking dream, and he had hurried to the familiar chamber, leaving the child in Mary's tender care, the agonized howls and roars coming from within Vincent's chamber compounding Jacob Wells' fear that Vincent was in the throes of some terrible seizure.

The sight that had greeted him as he had entered the chamber, had almost broken Jacob Wells' poor old heart. Vincent, eyes wild and full of remembered fear and shame, brimming over with tears, as he clawed at the mattress on his bed in desperation.

Still, he seemed perfectly calm, now.

"Young Jacob is fine, Vincent," The older Jacob assured softly. "Mary is with him. He understands ...."

"He is so young, Father .... to know such pain and torment .... through our Bond ...."

"He is his father's son, Vincent ...." Father sighed softly. "And you have taught him well. He understands .... because he _**feels**_ what you _**feel**_.... _**everything you feel**_. You are doing a fine job with him, Vincent. You have every reason to be proud, as do I ...." Jacob Wells smiled fondly then. "Although, I think that he is a little more crafty and devious than his father was at that age ...." He recalled with a chuckle.

"I? Devious? Your memory must be failing, Father ...." Vincent forced a smile, the gentle gesture that lifted his features slightly, but did not reveal his teeth. "Father .... I am sorry .... that I am such a worry to you .... sorry for .... all the trouble ...."

"Why break the habit of a lifetime? I know that you only do it save me from dying of boredom ...."

"I mean it, Father ...."

"I know, Vincent, and I would not have it any other way. I love you, Vincent ...."

He pulled his beloved son close once more, and pressed a gentle kiss to his deep forehead,

"I love you too, Father. Always ...."

"You're all right now?"

"Yes, Father," Vincent assured in soft, velvet tones.

"Good, then you can help me up. My leg has gone to sleep."

"Father .... I am doing the right thing .... in pursuing this?"

"I really don't know, Vincent, but it seems to me that there is no other path."

Vincent nodded silently, then carefully got to his feet, knocked the dust from his rumpled clothes, then reached out to help Father to his feet.

"So-o-o-o ...." Vincent sighed deeply, steadying Father until he got his balance and leaned more heavily against his old walking stick. "When should we start?" He asked with a hint of wariness. The last thing that he wanted was to hurt Father.

"Well, my boy, there is no time like the present. Strike whilst the iron is hot, and just maybe, we will have some answers for you before you are another year older ...."

"My birthday," Vincent suddenly grew thoughtful. "Perhaps that is why this someone who seeks me .... has chosen now .... to do so ...." He pondered aloud.

"Perhaps my boy, it is, after all, a milestone birthday. Forty years. Perhaps it has acted as a kind of catalyst ....." Jacob Wells mused.

"Yes. A catalyst ...."

"Perhaps. You may indeed have something there, Vincent ...." Father sighed deeply then, leaning heavily against the younger man as they slowly made their way out of Vincent's chamber.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX.**

Josephine Grayson nursed a frothy cup of Cappuccino coffee at a window table at Moe's Deli, as she awaited the arrival of her companion.

He was already thirty minutes late, but what the hey?

He was, undoubtedly, a_** very**_ busy man.

And it wasn't like this was a matter of life or death.

Josephine drummed her neatly manicured fingernails against the scratched and chipped blue Formica table top, and let out another deep sigh.

Arnold Baker certainly knew how to show a lady a good time!

Moe's was old and shabby, and the kitchen equipment temperamental, to say the least, if the loud curses and colorful language of the short, rotund, red-faced Chinese short order cook was anything to go by, and the remainder of the staff, a willow thin spotty adolescent girl fresh out of High School and a middle aged woman with an oily complexion and a spreading waistline, who looked as though she had the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders, could never have been accused of rushing in to things.

But ....

The food here must be terrific, if the steady flow of traffic in and out of the establishment was any indication.

Still, she had to admit that the coffee was good.

However, that did not mean that she planned to take up residence.

_**Dammit .... where was he!**_

At long last, close to one o'clock, Josephine spotted Arnold Baker, as he entered the deli, a flimsy manila file in one meaty paw, looking more than a little frazzled as he hurried over to her table.

He was obviously a regular patron of the establishment, because, despite the fact that the place was heaving with hungry New Yorkers, no sooner had Arnold pulled out the chair opposite Josephine, than the waitress was at his arm with a gallon of coffee and a fat, sugar covered doughnut.

Arnold smiled his thanks to the world weary waitress, stowed his unlit cigar in the ashtray in the centre of the table, then dunked the doughnut in to his coffee and crammed it in to his mouth with relish.

"Phew, doc, what a mornin' ...." He let out a deep sigh and wiped the sugary residue from his mouth and chin with his fist.

"Mr Baker ...."

"Sorry if I kept you waiting doc. Big break in another case ...." He smiled, revealing uneven, tobacco stained teeth like gate posts.

"Talk to me, Mr Baker ...." Josephine invited, biting back the bitter retort that was on the tip of her tongue, and drew in a along, calming breath.

"Well doctor ...."

He reached out for his cigar and jammed it in to his mouth. Josephine cast him a disapproving look, and with a quick movement of her head, made him aware of the faded sign in the corner of the window which read _**THE MANAGEMENT THANKS YOU FOR NOT SMOKING**_. Baker merely shrugged nonchalantly and began to chew on the fat Cuban cigar.

"The good new is that your friends the Paters' really did exist."

"You sound surprised."

"I am."

"Go on."

"Well ...." He rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth, drool running down his grey whiskered chin. "It is a little unusual, doc, and I do have a little more experience in these things than do you ...."

He removed the cigar from his mouth only long enough to take a swig of his coffee, then jammed it back on the other side of his mouth.

"Ya see, doc .... folks don't generally give their real names .... not for love .... nor money .... not usually anyways ...."

"You thought perhaps this woman lied?"

"I wouldn't have been surprised."

"But you were wrong."

"Ain't the first time, probably wont be the last time either, but what the heck. That's human nature for ya doc, always throwing up surprises ...."

"Mr Baker ...." Josephine sighed deeply.

"Call me, Arnie," he invited casually, chomping on his cigar.

"Mr Baker .... Do you have something to tell me, or not?" Josephine sighed again, rapidly losing patience with him.

"Like I said, they existed and I found them, because they were married here, in New York City, in April 1947 ...."

He remembered the file then, lying flat on the table top beside his coffee mug, and covered in sugar. He wiped away the grains of sugar and opened the file, pulling out a small, oblong piece of paper, which he smoothed flat and pushed across the table toward his client.

"A copy of their marriage certificate," he explained around his cigar as Josephine picked up the document. "You will see that he was English. A doctor, although I couldn't find any evidence that he applied for a license to practice over here, and she was from out of town too. Richmond, Virginia. A medical secretary."

The document did indeed contain all that information, as well as their dates of birth, and the couples parents names and dates of birth.

"You have more?" Josephine cast a furtive glance at the folder on the table.

"You're quick doc, I'll give you that," Arnold grinned, opening the file once again. "Guess that's why you're with the F.B.I. and I'm just an old fashioned gumshoe ...."

"I am a Forensic Pathologist, Mr Baker, not a gun toting, yahoo shouting, gung-ho field agent," she sighed deeply. "My knowledge of guns comes from a ballistics lab, not from stripping them down and keeping them well oiled .... now, may we continue?"

"Yeah .... well .... she, Anna, was the easiest to find ...."

He pushed another small oblong sheet of faded paper across the table to her, and she noted that it was the birth certificate of Anna Louise Pater nee Maynard.

"Middle class background. Good education. Father was a teacher, so I guess you'd expect that ...." He mused. "Secretarial college in Richmond, then here in New York for a while, before joining some research institute ...."

"Name?" Josephine looked up from the document.

"The Kleinberg Foundation," he supplied for her, and Josephine shook her head. It did not mean anything to her.

"He, John, worked there too, for a while ...." Baker informed.

"What did they specialize in?" Josephine regarded him suspiciously, wondering if she already knew the answer to that question.

"All sorts. Some Pharmaceuticals, and they had a mandate from the government to look in to the effects of biological warfare, radioactive fall out, stuff like that. Most of it highly classified, from what I could discover ...."

"And John Pater? What did he specialize in?"

"I don't know, doc. The place was wrecked in a fire in the late 60's, all their records destroyed," he explained. "I was lucky to find anything after all this time. All I did find out is that he was a research physician, or so he claimed on his tax returns ...."

"That's probably why he never applied for a license to practice. He wouldn't have needed one for pure research," Josephine mused. "Oh, I'm sorry Mr Baker ...." She flushed slightly as she noted the strange way that he was looking at her. "Please, go on ...."

"He was English, born in London, came over on the boat before the war, to go to medical school. Immigration have a record of his entering the country, in January of 1939 ...."

He opened the file again, and pushed another official looking document, a photocopy this time, across the table at her.

"This is him ...." He extracted a small, shabby black and white passport sized mug shot of the a young man with a long face, a thick mane of dark hair pushed back from his face, and deep set dark eyes.

Josephine shuddered at the sight of him.

John Pater.

The phrase,_** the face of evil**_, popping in to her head as she looked at the picture.

"And they married in 1947?"

"Yup."

"And?"

"And then, they both seem to have fallen off the face of the earth, doc, after about 1951/52 ...."

"What?" Josephine frowned.

"Late 1951, maybe the New Year of '52. Up until then, he's filling in his tax returns and paying Uncle Sam what he owes, but after then, he never makes another payment. It's a wonder that the IRS aren't baying for this guy's blood. That's a helluva lot of back taxes ...."

"Slow down Mr Baker, you lost me," Josephine frowned deeply again. "How can two people simply disappear without a trace? No death certificates?"

" None that I could find," he confirmed. "No missing persons reports either, with the local police, or the Feds, and no-one seemed to be even the least bit surprised that they weren't around any more, or so it seemed ...."

"Maybe they went back to England?"

"Then Emigration would have had a record of their leaving the country, but you see doc, that dog don't hunt ...."

"Mr Baker, people don't just disappear ...."

"Lady, this is New York City!" He ground out cynically, around his cigar. "Take a look around ya. Paradise it's not ...."

"Perhaps not now, but this was the early fifties, things were looking up after the war. It was a different time back then, Mr Baker, a more gentle, innocent time."

"Sure ...."

"So, you seem to have hit a dead end."

"Afraid so, doc, but, as I said, they were model citizens until 51/52 .... then ...." He lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug.

"What are the chances that they are still alive, Mr Baker?"

"You want the truth, doc?" Josephine nodded. "Zilch. Nada. A big fat zero ...."

"I get the point, Mr Baker ...."

"If they were alive, doc ...." He picked up his coffee mug once again, and took a swig of the thick, black brew. "We'd know about it. He would be what? Mid to late seventies, maybe she would be a couple of years younger? Believe me, they'd be on some hospitals' records, maybe a nursing home some place, and for sure they'd be claiming some kind of a pension, state assistance ...." He took another swig of his coffee, then set the mug down loudly on the table between them.

"It wouldn't be difficult to find them. It's amazing the paper trail that we create just living ordinary lives, doc. The government and the state always needing you to fill out some form or another. Nah, if you ask me, they fell on hard times, fell off the perch, and were buried in some place like Potters Field ...." The last resting place of paupers and displaced persons with no kith or kin, or funds to be buried in consecrated ground.

"Thank you, Mr Baker. I sincerely hope that you are wrong ...."

"So do I doc. That's no kinda end for anyone," he chomped on his cigar once more.

"At least we agree on that."

"How goes your telephone hotline?"

"Not good ...." Mostly silence, Josephine thought to herself.

"It's early days. Half the city ain't awake yet," He grinned. "And the other half's still high or hung over. Give it time doc. Give it time."

He rose abruptly then, and pushed back his chair, which made a loud scraping noise on the grey linoleum.

"You want I should keep digging?"

"Would it do any good?"

"Maybe ...." He shrugged absently. "You never know your luck in the big city, doc," he rolled the cigar back to the other side of his mouth, a most unattractive habit, Josephine decided.

"I could maybe try her family in Virginia, see if anyone's still alive down there, if they ever heard anything from her. She had a couple of sisters. Maybe one of 'em's still alive ...."

"If you think it would do any good ...."

"Can't hurt, doc."

He picked up the file off the table and shoved the documents roughly inside, then reached out and picking up his mug, drained the last of the coffee from it.

"See ya around, doc ...."

"Hmm .... "Josephine responded absently, her mind churning over the few snippets of information that she had gleaned. "Oh yes .... and thank you, Mr Baker ...."

"I know it probably seems like small potatoes, doc, but at least you know that this Anna woman and her husband were real people. Somebody out there must have known them. M Maybe it's not such a wild goose chase after all. Adios doc."

"Merry Christmas, Mr Baker. Merry Christmas ...."

/a\

"Dad?"

"Jacob ...."

Father and son smiled at each other as they spoke almost in unison, soft, loving, knowing smiles.

When Vincent had finally sought out his son, after escorting Father back to his chamber, the boy had flown across the nursery chamber, where he had been reading aloud, beautifully, from the _**Wind In The Willows,**_ by Kenneth Graham, to a small group of the younger children, under Mary's watchful, loving eye, and had thrown himself at his father, his face wreathed in smiles as Vincent hoisted up his slender frame in his strong arms, and the boy had buried his face in his father's long, fluffy red/gold mane.

There had, as usual, been no real need for words, Vincent able to sense his son's concern for him, and his unease, and burning curiosity, which he had an abundance of about _**all**_ things and Vincent had tried to exude a calming influence, by sending out an aura of peace and love through their empathic link.

Without comment, father and son had hugged, exchanged kisses, and then, having set the boy down gently, and smiled his thanks to the softly smiling Mary, Vincent had taken the boy's small warm hand in his larger, fur covered own, and they had begun a familiar journey, which had eventually brought them to the top of the cliffs at the falls.

Both had sat down at the edge, boot encased legs dangling over the cliff top, each dropping tiny pebbles and rocks in to the dark water beneath with a satisfying _**splosh**_.

They had had many father to son chats here, many heart to hearts, about Jacob's mother

.

How she and his father had met .... fallen in love ....

How she had come to lose him to the evil Gabriel.

And how she had almost lost her life in the process.

Had indeed lost any real quality of life, lying there unconscious in that sterile hospital room, alone all day long, with only his father's nocturnal visits to break up the monotony.

Vincent had withheld nothing from his son, knowing that because of their special _**Connection**_, there was no point. Young Jacob was aware of just how his father had felt about his mother, still felt about his mother, because he could _**feel**_ it too.

Both father and son had an affinity for this pleasant, serene place. The gentle flow of the water having a soothing effect on each of them.

Vincent also had some very happy memories of sharing this place with Catherine and that brought young Jacob closer to knowing a sense of his mother, without the very real and deep feelings of pain and the loss and the heartache that his father associated with the other places that his parents had shared together.

"I am sorry that I frightened you," Vincent said at last, on a deep sigh, his deep, velvet voice echoing around the falls to mingle with the soft splash of water.

"What happened, Dad?" The boy regarded Vincent with his own familiar deep blue eyes, staring back at him from Catherine's beautiful face, and Vincent again felt the familiar tug at his heart.

The boy was so like his mother in many ways, inheriting her looks, her complexion, her quirky sense of humor and love of the absurd, as well as her quick intelligence and courage.

So long as he lived, so would Catherine.

From his father, young Jacob had inherited his hair coloring, the color of his eyes, his patience and understanding, his love of learning, and of course, the gift of empathy.

A gift? Yes. sometimes.

Also a curse.

Like today.

Vincent also suspected from the way that he was swiftly outgrowing his clothes, that Jacob would also inherit his father's physique. The boy already had a good deal more strength than the other boys of his age.

Jacob was, in general, a well balanced mixture of both his parents, Vincent decided.

"Jacob, something happened today. Your Grandfather told me something that awakened bad memories," Vincent explained in a soft, low voice now, dropping another rock in to the black waters below.

"It made you very angry ...." Young Jacob observed.

"Yes, at first ...." Vincent acknowledged.

"And then ...." The boy regarded his father solemnly. "I sensed .... that you were ...." He frowned, catching his bottom lip between his teeth briefly, struggling to find adequate words from his limited vocabulary. "Excited ...." He tried the word, but frowned in dissatisfaction.

"Hopeful?" Vincent suggested, knowing that there_**had**_ been an element of hope in what he had felt.

"Yes .... just for a heartbeat .... and then .... such .... darkness .... such .... pain ...."

"Yes," Vincent hung his head briefly.

"It must have been really .... awful, Dad ...."

"It was, and I am truly sorry that it touched you too ...."

"It's okay Dad. I'm all right," The boy assured with a wide toothy grin. "I understand. You know I do. I knew straight away that I was picking up _**your**_ emotions, Dad .... _**your**_ feelings ...." He explained matter of factly.

"But still ...."

"Dad, it's okay. Really. I can't image what it would feel like _**not**_ to be able to feel you in my mind, how much lonelier I would be. I always know what you are feeling, that you're never far away, that you'll know when I'm mad, or sad, or hurt, or in trouble ...."

"Yes ...."

"But ...."

"But?" Vincent arched an eyebrow.

"It's not so great when you know when I'm fibbing, or when I've done something that I shouldn't have ...." They both smiled at this. "But .... I guess I can live with that," Jacob sighed resolutely.

"Or else quit lying and creating mischief, finish your chores and apply yourself to your studies?" Vincent suggested ruefully.

"No way, Dad! I have a reputation to keep up, you know ...." Vincent rolled his eyes heavenward and chuckled softly at this. "So Dad, what did Grandfather tell you?" The boy regarded his father with a steady sky blue gaze.

"Well," Vincent sighed softly. "It has to do with how I came to live Below with your Grandfather," Vincent began hesitantly.

"Found outside St Vincent's hospital on January 12 ...." Jacob took up the story. "The coldest day of the year .... wrapped in rags .... you cried for three days straight, Grandfather says ...." The child grinned, looking even more like his poor mother.

Vincent could not help smiling at this.

Good old Father. The tale had never varied in the telling for the past forty years.

"They didn't think that you would live, did they Dad? But you showed 'em huh, Dad?"

"Yes Jacob, I showed them," Vincent sighed deeply.

"And then, Paracelsus tried to make you believe that he was your father ...."

"Yes."

"That was what you were remembering," The boy said with utter conviction and certainty. "That .... and when he kidnapped my mother and tried to kill her ...."

"Yes, that too ...."

"And you showed him too ...."

"Jacob, I am not proud of that," Vincent gently reminded his son.

"I know, Dad. You were sick. He was baiting you ...."

"And I lost myself .... lashed out ...." Vincent sighed again.

It had been the one and only time that he had used violence, without the valid excuse of protecting Catherine, Father, the community, or in self defense ....

Out of his mind with anger .... pain .... disbelief .... grief and torment .... he had struck out, wanting only to end the pain and misery inflicted by Paracelsus' vile words.

Only ....

He had truly been convinced that it was_** Father**_ that he was lashing out at.

"Anyway, all these years, we have always believed that only those of us who live Below know my story, of how I came to come Below," Vincent picked up the thread of his narrative. "But, now it seems that someone .... someone from the world Above .... knows of my birth and seeks to discover if I survived .... if I am still alive .... what became of me ...."

"Wow! who Dad?"

"I do not know, yet, Jacob, but, it could be .... my .... mother ...."

"Your Mom?"

"I ...." Vincent shrugged. "Could be ...."

"What are you going to do?

"Your Grandfather is going to ask our helpers in the world Above to look in to it. When I know more, then I will decide what's best to do."

"You will be careful, wont you Dad?"

Jacob knew that his father still made regular sourjons Above, at night, keeping his patient vigil at his mother's bedside and occasionally visiting helpers, repaying kindness' to those who had once helped the tunnel dwellers, and were now either too old, or too sick to carry out their duties, taking food, medicine and the good wishes of their old friends Below, in some cases, the only family that they had, but those good will visits were not so frequent these days.

The world Above had little to interest his father these days.

And had not, since Diana Bennett ....

The woman who had helped his father to rescue him as a baby, from the clutches of the evil Gabriel, and whom had restored his comatose mother to his father, thus restoring his hope. No matter how small.

Not since she had taken up a position with the F.B.I. at their training academy, Quantico, in Virginia, as a psychological profiler, two years ago.

Up until then, the young Jacob had held a small hope that his father might find happiness in a friendship with Diana, that they might become closer, but his mother's memory always seemed to loom large between them, and, in the end, Diana had been forced to accept that for Vincent, there was only one woman that he would ever love.

Catherine Chandler. Trapped in a limbo world, neither living nor dead.

She was still the only woman that would ever occupy Vincent's thoughts, and his heart.

For his part, Vincent had missed Diana's companionship and had been subdued and quiet after she had gone, afraid that just by missing Diana's companionship, he had somehow betrayed his love for Catherine.

Now, there was no-one that he was really close too, although he was never short of love, from Grandfather, Mary and himself.

Jacob thought that it was such a pity that his father seemed so alone.

Although he insisted that he was not.

That he still had his mother.

He was a wonderful man.

Unique.

Thoughtful, generous, so full of love ....

He should not be alone.

He deserved to be loved in return.

Perhaps if his father found his mother after all these years, he might also find a family. Brothers. Sisters .... their kids ....

Jacob thought that that would be .... _** neat **_....

Vincent suddenly sensed this change in his son's mood, anticipation, acceptance and pleasure.

And allowed himself to share in them.

But only for the fraction of a heart beat.

He was no fool.

He was aware that he could be opening himself up to an abundance of heartache, fear and danger.

And not just for himself.

But what if young Jacob was right?

What if he wasn't alone?

"Dad?"

"Yes. I will try ...." Vincent vowed, in response to Jacob's warning about taking care.

The boy shuffled closer to his father then, leaning lightly against his sturdy body and Vincent drew his arm about the boy's waist, bringing him close enough to drop a soft kiss to the top of his head.

"I love you, Jacob ...." He murmured thickly into the child's hair.

"I love you too, Dad," The boy snuggled closer, leaning against his father's strong, broad chest with a contented sigh. "I wonder what she's like?"

"Who? My mother?"

"Mm ...."

"I do not know. I have never really thought about it." It had been too painful. Too soul destroying.

A part of him had always wanted to believe that she had died giving him life, finding that easier to live with than the thought that she had simply left him to rot amongst the garbage.

Until Paracelsus' sick version of how he had come to be born had sullied even that small comfort.

"I bet she's really beautiful ...." Young Jacob mused aloud.

"What makes you say that?" Vincent frowned.

"She made you, didn't she?" Vincent was quite taken aback by this remark. "I think you're beautiful, Dad ...."

"I think you are beautiful too, Jacob ...." Vincent pressed another soft kiss in to his son's hair.

"Thanks for telling me, Dad."

"I wanted you to know, so that you will understand if I am a little grouchy or sad or worried. Now you will know why."

"Vincent?" Mary's soft voice suddenly rang around the entrance to the cliff top cavern. "Vincent?"

"I am here, Mary," Vincent responded, and Jacob quickly scrambled out of his father's arms, and to his feet.

"Ah good, there you are ...." She puffed, her cheeks suffused with color, smiling at Jacob. "Father sent me. Peter is here ...."

Peter.

Peter Alcott.

Long time friend and helper to all those Below.

And one time family friend of Catherine Chandler's. The family doctor who had delivered her.

"Thank you, Mary. I'll be right along," Vincent let out a long, deep sigh.

He had not seen Peter in a long time.

His trips Below had become less frequent since Catherine had been settled at the hospital.

The elderly doctor had been devastated by Catherine's disappearance, and utterly bereft upon hearing the news of her supposed death some six months later.

Peter had been out of town, visiting his dying brother in Pittsburgh, at the time, and had been unable to attend Catherine's 'funeral'.

And then, Vincent had recovered baby Jacob, and Diana had broken the news that Catherine was still alive.

However, the discovery of her true condition had broken Peter, unable to watch her familiar, but comatose and lifeless face with its peaceful and never changing expression.

Something had died in Peter Alcott at that moment, preferring to consider the beauty that he had delivered, and nursed throughout her life, as being gone, forever, as good as dead, and he had been lost to his friends.

Peter had stopped coming Below after that, stopped attending Winterfest although, Vincent was aware that he still communicated with Father.

"Run along, Jacob. I will see you at dinner."

Vincent gave his son a gentle push towards Mary.

"Take it easy Dad."

"I will," Vincent smiled, despite him self. "Be good," he advised.

"I'll try ...." The boy chuckled softly, and scampered away.

Vincent watched his son go, relieved to see that there were no lingering after effects from the events of earlier, his son obviously having more control over his empathic gift than his father.

Who still felt a little rubber legged, even now.

And then he watched Mary go, walking slowly, pulling a beautifully crocheted fluffy white shawl more closely about her shoulders as she went.

And his thoughts turned to Peter.

It wasn't that he dreaded facing the man himself.

Only coming face to face with his grief.

/a\

As he approached Father's chamber, Vincent came to an abrupt halt, taking in a long, deep breath, composing himself, before continuing on into Father's domain.

Peter Alcott was seated across from Jacob Wells, a cup of steaming tea before each of them.

Vincent's heart came up in to his mouth as he took in the elderly medical man's appearance.

Peter had always been such a distinguished looking gentleman, tall, slender, strong, but since the last time that Vincent had seen him, he had grown thin and stooped, his hair completely white now.

Vincent was shocked by the marked deterioration.

But there was something more that shocked Vincent.

Something about the man's eyes.

Dead eyes. No warmth. No spark of life.

Something inside of Peter had died along with Catherine.

"Ah, there you are, Vincent," Father greeted, beckoning him with a wave of a half gloved hand. "All is well with Jacob?"

"Yes, Father ...."

"Good ...."

Vincent swiftly descended the four metal steps from the vestibule, down in to the lower level of Father's chamber, and crossed the room on long strides to where Peter Alcott sat, his big fur covered hand outstretched toward the other man in greeting.

"Peter, it's good to see you ...."

"Hello Vincent,"

The older man, remaining seated, accepted Vincent's hand, and shook it briefly, however, Vincent was still able to detect the slight tremor of Peter's bony hand, despite the brief contact, which was even more noticeable as Peter reached out for his teacup, the delicate bone china, one of Mary's last treasures from the world Above, rattled in the saucer.

"This is a very strange business .... very strange business indeed ...." Peter waved at the full page of newsprint spread out on the table before him. "As soon as I saw it, I knew that I had to come. How are you coping?" He regarded Vincent with rheumy eyes.

"It has come as something of a shock," Vincent confessed in a low voice, pulling up a chair to sit beside Father, directly opposite Peter Alcott. "But ...."

"Naturally, you want to know more ...."

"Yes."

"Well, Jacob has asked me to check on this Dr Grayson, and I can certainly do that for you. With my connections in the medical community in this town it shouldn't prove difficult to come up with some information," Peter sighed deeply, pushing his china cup and saucer away from him. "I just don't know what you hope to gain from this ...."

"Perhaps the truth ...." Vincent sighed deeply. "And it is long overdue ...."

"Indeed," Father gently patted his son's large, furry hand, his deep sapphire blue eyes beseeching Vincent to try to remain calm.

"What possible difference could it make to you now, Vincent?" Peter Alcott persisted.

"Perhaps nothing," Vincent acknowledged. "But at least I will know .... more .... than I know now .... about my lineage .... my heritage .... gain a sense of history .... and there is young Jacob ...."

Vincent saw Peter flinch at the mention of his son's name, and frowned deeply.

"One day ...." He continued softly. "He may wish to see the world Above .... his Mother's world ...."

Vincent paused, wrestling to keep his emotions in check.

It wasn't as if he had not thought about such a possibility. Jacob could easily live in his Mother's world, have a normal life, and Vincent knew that he would not stop his son, if that was what Jacob really wanted.

But it did not mean that it hurt any less.

That he might lose his son to the topsiders too.

Some day ....

Of course, right now, Jacob's place was with his father.

But, later, when he was older, he might want to go to college.

Or simply want to find a nice girl and settle down.

Like an ordinary man.

And if that was what would make him happy, his father would rejoice for him.

"He is already carried away in dreams about Aunts and Uncles and cousins," Vincent sighed softly. "And he set me thinking, if I do have family Above, Jacob has a right to know, the right to get to know them ...."

"As you wish," Peter Alcott sighed deeply. "I just can't help feeling that it will bring nothing but trouble," he leaned forward then, pinning a cold blue glare on Vincent. "Is it worth it? Is it worth jeopardizing all of this? To risk destroying this?"

"I will make sure that that does not happen," Vincent assured softly. "I am sworn to protect this place, these people. It .... they .... are my life ...."

"Yes."

"Peter ...." Jacob Wells regarded his old friend with a frown.

"I'm sorry Jacob ...."

"Tell me ...." Vincent invited.

"It's been forty years Vincent. Forty years. What good can come of it? Let it rest ...."

"I cannot," Vincent responded simply. "But, if your conscience troubles you, Peter, I understand. If you want to keep out of this ...."

"No .... no .... I'll do as I said .... check in to this Dr Grayson. Vincent, promise me that you will be careful. Promise me. If anything should happen to you .... the boy .... Catherine's son .... would be alone ...."

"I promise, Peter," Vincent was shocked by the depth of emotion that he could see on Peter's face now.

"He needs you. God help us .... so do we all, Vincent ...."

"Nothing is going to change, Peter. This is my home. The people Below will always be my family ...."

"And one more person who knows of your existence, is one more person who can betray us, destroy us, be used against us ...."

"We will be very careful," Jacob Wells assured his old friend patiently. "No-one need know about this place .... us ...."

"And don't you think that this 'someone' is going to be curious as to how and where you have been living all these years?"

"We will cross that bridge when we come to it," Jacob Wells sighed deeply. "For now, all we are really interested in is discovering who this person is, and what they want to know about Vincent," he explained. "Vincent may even decide not to pursue the matter beyond that point but, the decision must be his and his alone ...."

"I'm sure that you both know what you are doing ...." Peter Alcott pushed back his chair and stood somewhat unsteadily, a weary set to his narrow, stooped shoulders. "I will be in touch ...."

"Thank you, Peter."

"I will need a guide back up top, Jacob ...."

"Yes, of course. I'll arrange it."

Jacob Wells limped heavily out of the chamber, looking for one of the children to escort Peter back to the sub-basement threshold below the parking lot of his office.

"Peter, how have you been?" Vincent asked, breaking the silence left by Jacob Wells' departure.

"As bad as I look, I'm afraid," Peter confessed sadly. "I still miss her ...."

"I too," Vincent bowed his head, and swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. "You still blame me .... for not .... saving her ...."

"No," Peter responded softly. "You are the one blaming yourself, Vincent. You don't need anyone else to do it for you. I know that you loved her, and I know how much she loved you. It just seems like such a waste, Vincent. She was so young. So beautiful. So vibrant and alive. She had so much to give and a child who needed her. Why Vincent? What was the point of it all?"

His talking of Catherine as if she were dead, cut Vincent to the quick, and reminded him again that only he and Father truly held out any hope that one day, Catherine might recover, might come back to them.

"I don't know," Vincent sighed raggedly. "I really don't know, except that it was about one man's greed .... his need for power .... control .... to take what he wanted .... just because he could ...."

Vincent bowed his head, taking a deep breath.

"And I have to live with the consequences every day of my life, Peter ...." His voice suddenly cracked. "But .... for the sake of my son .... our son .... I make myself go through the motions of living an ordinary life, and for the most part, I am able to convince my family that all is well. Sometimes I am even able to convince myself .... then ...."

He paused, trying to regain his composure then.

"It still hurts Peter. Every morning, the pain that I feel when I awaken .... and remember that she is gone .... is just as fresh as that first morning ...."

Vincent faltered, bowing his head once more.

"She was my life," He breathed. "_**Is**_ .... my life .... but .... I owe it to our son to go on and in a way, I am doing this for him too. Maybe he does not have to be alone, Peter. Maybe he can have the kind of life Above, that Catherine would have wanted for him, that I cannot give him here. Is it wrong of me to want the best for him?"

"No, and Catherine would have expected nothing less from you, Vincent .... that .... and that you love him ...."

"I do ...."

"I know. Jacob is very proud of you .... of both of you ...."

"I know. Please don't worry, Peter. I will not let anything bad happen, and I will not hurt Father. Jacob. He is my father. The only father I have ever known. Nothing can change that. I love him. I value his advise and his support, and I cannot imagine my life without him ...." Vincent assured in more even tones now.

"Have you told _**him**_ that?"

"He doesn't need to," Jacob Wells said softly as he re-entered the chamber, with a disheveled youth clad in rough homespun. "I already know it, Peter," he placed an affectionate hand on Peter Alcott's shoulder. "Now, young Andrew here has volunteered to escort you Above."

"Thank you, Jacob, as ever, you have been the perfect host."

The two men embraced briefly.

"Say goodbye to Mary for me, and thank her for the tea. I will look in to this business straight away ...."

"Thank you, Peter."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Vincent. You were not to blame for what happened to Catherine .... were as much a victim as she was, and she would be very proud of you and the way that you are raising the boy," he reached out for Vincent's hand once more.

"I hope that you find the answers that you are looking for, Vincent. You're right. I guess it's past time you knew the truth about how you came to be."

"Thank you."

As he watched Peter slowly follow young Andrew out of the chamber, Vincent let out a deep sigh, feeling as though he had gone a little way to bridging the gulf that had opened up between them after Catherine's disappearance.

Poor Peter.

If he could only take a little of his own advise, and stop blaming himself for not being able to protect Catherine when she needed him, maybe he would find a little peace too.

"Well now, Vincent ...." Father was saying. "All we can do now is wait ...."

"Yes, Father," Vincent sighed deeply. "All we can do .... is .... wait ...."


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN.**

Josephine impatiently brushed at her tears as she folded the last white silk blouse with tiny seed pearls around the neckline and Mother of Pearl buttons down the front, neatly, and placed it carefully with the rest of her mother's beautiful, sophisticated and extremely expensive clothes.

She sat down on the bed in her mother's room with a deep sigh, her gaze traveling around the room to the boxes and cartons of skirts, blouses, sweaters, cardigans, trousers, suits, dresses and evening gowns, shoes enough to rival Imelda Marcos, slippers, mules, sandals and walking shoes.

It was hard to believe that one woman could amass such an extensive wardrobe, much less ever have found the time or the right occasion to wear even one half of it.

Every item was superbly crafted, bearing designer labels, and had been well looked after.

And none of it was to Josephine's taste.

Josephine's tastes were a little less ostentatious and extravagant, although she did own one or two outfits of good quality and style, they had seen the light of day less and less over the years, and since Jeff had died. They remained in their protective plastic sleeves in the back of her wardrobe in England, and there they would probably stay.

Josephine let out another soft sigh.

Of course, all these things were far too good for the Thrift Shop that she was donating them to, and she knew that Andrea Reeve would have been appalled that she should want to rid herself of her mother's belongings in the first place.

Even Mrs Ludlow, the housekeeper, had eyed her with obvious disapproval, until Josephine had asked her if there was something from her mother's wardrobe that she would like to have as a remembrance.

Flustered, and touched, for a moment, the old woman had forgotten her antipathy toward the younger woman, and had taken her time in selecting a couple of pretty silk scarves and a soft lilac skirt suit and matching silk blouse. "For her Sunday best ...." She had mumbled, taking her leave with downcast eyes, as she muttered her thanks.

Now, there was only her mother's jewellery and papers to sort through.

The jewellery had been mentioned in Andrea's letter to Josephine, the one where she had laid out her plans for the spoils to be divided between Josephine and her brother, should she ever find him. Although, at the moment, there did not seem to be much danger of that.

The hotline had been surprisingly quiet. Obviously ten thousand dollars was small change to the majority of New Yorkers. Only a handful of crank calls, a few wrong numbers, several elderly people, lonely and depressed over the holiday season, glad for any excuse to talk to someone, even a stranger.

Arnold Baker had had no more luck with following his lines of enquiry into Anna Pater, in Virginia. All her close family were now dead, and her only surviving kin, a niece and a nephew, had never even met her.

So that was another dead end.

And she had reluctantly dispensed with Arnold Baker's services, thanking him for his time and trouble and for the little that he had come up with to help her.

From outside, a car horn sounded urgently, and Josephine glanced out of the window to find that dusk was already falling, low clouds scudding across a blanket of deep grey

It was the Tuesday after Christmas, December 27th, and New York was taking a pause between the over indulgence of Christmas and the over exuberance of New Years Eve celebrations.

For her, Christmas Day had been a very quiet, low key affair, having spent the day listening to carols on the radio, watching videos of the Wizard Of Oz and White Christmas and making her own meals, having given the staff, including Mrs Ludlow, the day off.

In the evening, Patrick O'Shea had stopped by for a quiet drink and a chat, and then Josephine had retired to bed early, happy to read and sleep away the remainder of what was, for her, still a very painful day.

The quietness and the solitude had been her Christmas gift to herself.

But next year ....

Next year ....

_**I'll have the biggest knees up I can organize ....**_

_**And share it with my brother ....**_

_**Optimist.**_

_**What if he doesn't want to be found?**_

__She had been thinking about that, more and more.

What if .... if she _**did**_ find him?

And he did not want anything to do with her?

_**What if he was .... dead?**_

__Josephine closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath.

Next year ....

Next year, she would be happy just to break bread and share a glass of wine with her brother for that, at least, would be a beginning.

Next year ....

1995.

It was only a few days away now.

In just over two weeks time, _**he**_ would be forty .... she thought solemnly.

Could she possibly find him in time to share that day with him?

Or would another year go by before she even got close?

No.

She wouldn't think about that.

She would never give up.

Not until she found him.

Or at least discovered what had happened to him.

She owed it to _**him**_.

She owed it to _**herself**_.

No.

She would never stop.

And until she _**did**_ find him.

Or discovered what had become of him.

She would get on with living her life.

A new life.

Here.

In New York.

_**That**_ had been the other Christmas gift to herself ....

The decision to take up a permanent position with the New York field office of the F.B.I. which had been offered to her by the Senior Agent in Charge, on Christmas Eve, when she had reported in and explained about her mother's death.

Special Agent Andrew McNeal had expressed his condolences to her, and then asked her plans, eyeing her curiously as she had sat across the desk from him, sipping a cup of coffee, which he knew to be several hours old and utterly disgusting, without complaint or comment. She, in turn, had explained that several of her mother's business affairs would keep her here in New York, indefinitely, and McNeal had wasted no time in telling her that he had been very pleased with her work and her attitude, and the way that she had fitted in with the others in the department, and that, if she so desired, they could offer her a permanent position, beginning January 2, as the Senior pathologist was due to retire on medical grounds.

Josephine had jumped at the chance to stay on, relieved to be able to do something that she both loved, and was good at.

And it would be good to get back in to some kind of routine again, to get some stability back in to her life.

Josephine rose from the bed, straightened her soft grey jersey knit skirt and pale blue sweater as she crossed the room and pulled the drapes.

There was nothing more that she could do today, she told herself silently, regarding the array of boxes and cartons full of clothes.

Tomorrow they would be gone, collected by a very grateful, elderly man from the Thrift Shop, in the morning, and perhaps then, she would feel refreshed enough to tackle her mother's jewellery and the old dust covered boxes of papers in the attic.

Right now, though, she deserved a refreshing cup of tea, and a long soak in a hot tub of softly scented water.

/a\

"Hello Vincent ...."

"Hello Lena," Vincent found himself smiling softly at the beautiful, slender young blonde woman who had walked up beside him, a smile on her lips as she watched the children break up after their beautiful performance of carols and Christmas songs, this Tuesday evening.

Vincent had had a hard time getting young Jacob to join the little choir, his son being of the very strong opinion that singing was only for girls, and that it was sissy!

Poor boy, Vincent thought with a soft smile. No wonder he was so reluctant. He had inherited his mother's singing voice, and she would have been the first to agree that it wasn't great.

On the other hand ....

Jacob should be grateful that he had not inherited his father's aptitude for music.

Vincent had a good ear. indeed, loved all kinds of music, but ....

He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

However, what young Jacob lacked in talent, he more than made up for in volume.

Lena's beautiful daughter had a very pleasant clear, soprano voice, and it was plain to Vincent that Lena was very proud of her solo performance of _**Away In A Manger**_ earlier in the evening.

Vincent still recalled how Lena had come to join the community Below, indeed, would never forget.

A child prostitute, destitute and pregnant, she had called a helpline one cold winter's night, just before Christmas six years ago, and had had the good fortune to find the tender hearted and compassionate Catherine Chandler on the other end of the line.

Catherine had taken pity on the girl, and had asked Vincent to try to persuade Father to accept her in to their world Below.

Her transition in to the life of a tunnel dweller had not been easy, but her total, unquestioning acceptance of Vincent himself had been both a surprise, and a great joy to him.

However, things had become more complicated when Lena had fallen in love with Vincent.

His heart had, and always would belong to Catherine.

But, for an instant, he had felt an affinity for the beautiful young girl who wanted nothing more than to warm him with her love.

Another time ....

Another place ....

Things might have been very different.

He had tried to let her down gently, but Lena had been hurt, confused and rejected, and she had run away, leaving behind her beautiful daughter.

And Vincent had turned to Catherine, unable to hide his shame and guilt as he had explained the situation to her.

But Catherine had understood.

And she had set out to find Lena, and bring her back to her new home, and her child.

And out of gratitude and love, Lena had named her daughter after her.

For a time, after his Catherine had disappeared, it had been very hard for Vincent to even look at Lena and her daughter, the memories still too painful, too fresh, not wanting to see the look of hope and expectation in her beautiful eyes.

But Lena had showed him nothing but love and understanding, and compassion, expecting nothing in return, except his friendship, and over the years, they had become comfortable with each other's company, sharing the highs and lows, sorrows and joys, of raising their children, Lena having accepted a long time ago, that for Vincent, there could be no other woman than Catherine Chandler.

Lena herself had found love with a young man called James, who had been born and raised Below, and knew no other life. He had proved to be a devoted and loving husband and father, and Vincent had been very happy for both of his friends.

"You are well?" He enquired, his eyes searching Father's chamber for his wayward son, who appeared to have taken the first opportunity to disappear with his friends.

"Yes." She smiled serenely. "You?"

"Yes. And James?"

"Yes," she grinned becomingly, as over Vincent's shoulder, she spied her husband as he scooped up her giggling daughter and began to walk toward where she and Vincent were standing.

"Vincent," she grew thoughtful for a moment, and Vincent knew that, like the rest of the community, she had heard about the enquiries in the newspapers, which appeared to refer to him.

"You've heard?"

"Well .... yes .... James found one of those fliers .... and well .... we all know your story, Vincent .... how you came Below .... we both knew that it had to be you ...."

"Do not worry, Lena," Vincent said softly. "Whoever it is who seeks me, I will ensure that they can do no harm to our world," he assured.

"I know that Vincent," she smiled shyly. "How do you feel about it? After all this time?"

"Confused. Hurt. Angry ...." He sighed deeply. "Curious …." He smiled then. Relieved that now, after all this time there could be an end to all the uncertainty.

"Be careful, Vincent ...."

"I will."

"And Vincent .... be happy," she laid a warm, mittened hand on his forearm. "I hope that this .... venture .... brings you only joy, Vincent," she smiled softly, her sisterly love for him shining in her eyes. "You have had enough heartache and pain ...."

"True," he sighed. "Thank you, Lena ...."

"You should stop by our chamber some time. We would love to have you and Jacob over for dinner," she invited, just as her husband James, carrying their beautiful, boisterous blonde haired daughter, Catherine, walked up beside her and slipped his free arm lovingly around her narrow waist.

"Hello, Vincent."

The slender, brown haired, brown eyed younger man greeted his old friend with a broad smile, so obviously a man at peace with his life and contented with his family.

"James .... Catherine ...."

"Hi Vincent. Have you decided which book we'll start reading in class?" The young girl asked, her big blue eyes sparkling with the joy of simply being alive, and loved.

"I thought that I might let the class decide," Vincent responded a little awkwardly. In truth, that had been the last thing on his mind in recent days.

"Great! I'd like to read Wuthering Heights."

"Emily Bronte," Vincent smiled. "Good choice. However, perhaps the rest of the class would prefer something .... lighter ...."

"Jacob wants The Three Musketeers," she wrinkled her pretty little nose in distaste. "Boys always like books about fighting .... and flirting ...." She added sagely.

"Catherine!" Lena exclaimed, her tone scolding, but she could not suppress a smile.

"And on that note .... my friend .... I think we should bid you goodnight," James grinned, a joyous sight, as he ruffled the young Catherine's hair affectionately. "Goodnight, Vincent. Be well."

"And you, James .... Catherine .... Lena ...."

"Be well, Vincent," Lena reached up and pressed a soft, sisterly kiss to his rough whiskered cheek. "And remember, I'm always there if you need to talk."

"I know it ...."

"Goodnight, Vincent."

"Goodnight, Lena ...."

Vincent watched the trio depart from Father's chamber, and could not help remembering the lonely, bitter, desperate girl that Lena had been when they had first met.

Life Below had certainly agreed with her, these wondrous tunnels and chambers having worked their magic on her, soothing her soul, the people also having worked their magic, through acceptance, friendship and love.

Lena's was another life that Catherine had touched, and brought a new peace and joy to.

Vincent closed his eyes momentarily, against the tears that threatened, and let out a soft sigh.

"Don't look so glum, my boy!" Father came up beside him then, and draped a loving arm casually around his broad shoulders. "Do you think he could sing solo?" He grinned, and Vincent could not suppress a smile as he went along with the very old joke.

"So low we can't hear him?" He added the punch line, and Jacob Wells rolled his eyes heavenward and let out a snort of laughter.

"Never mind. He might not be able to sing, but perhaps we could teach him to whistle?" Jacob Wells smiled wryly, pleased that the moment of melancholy seemed to have passed, as Vincent could not suppress a soft chuckle.

"Now, about your birthday celebrations ...."

Vincent rolled his eyes heavenward, as he allowed himself to be guided across the room to the chess board.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

_**THURSDAY 29TH DECEMBER, 1994.**_

Thursday afternoon found Dr Peter Alcott at his gentleman's club, nursing a Scotch and soda on the rocks, and a bad case of indigestion.

Earlier, he had dined with another old friend, Herman Freedman, a retired Professor of Neurology, whom he had not seen in years.

The other man had just returned to New York after six weeks in Florida, sunning himself in Miami and drinking wine and fruit cocktails all day long.

Herman hadn't stopped talking about his retirement, his vacation, and the book that he was working on, and when he did, it had been to boast about his new twin grandsons, even producing a much thumbed Polaroid photograph of the babes in their cradles in the hospital for him to moon over.

Peter had endured as much of this chit chat as he could, before pursuing the real reason for inviting the old bore to lunch.

Other lines of investigation in to the background and identity of the elusive Dr J. Grayson had proved frustrating and fruitless.

He had not been able to find any doctor with that name on the medical register for the State of New York, and his secretary, Mai Lin, was even now, researching other State's registers, in the hope that this Grayson person had come from out of town.

Herman had proved even more useless, having heard nothing of any value to Peter since his return from vacation, and had immediately returned to his banal chatter about family life.

As he nursed his glass, ice cubes clinking against the crystal tumbler in his trembling hand, Peter had to acknowledge that he did not have many friends left whom he could tap for information, except maybe the one who had just walked in to the lounge bar.

Leo Craven.

Lord, it had been a while since their paths had crossed, Peter thought to himself.

The two men had met at medical school and had been rivals at first, and then, later, very good friends.

Leo had chosen a different path to his friend, Peter, pursuing the new science of Forensic Medicine and he had done very well out of it too, Peter acknowledged to himself, and eventually, Leo had ended up with a very cushy job with the C.I.A. Or was it the F.B.I.?

Leo suddenly spotted Peter, and diverted from his previous destination, that being the nearest waiter and waving to his old friend, steered himself in the direction of where he was sitting.

"Join me?" Peter invited after they had greeted each other with smiles and jovial handshakes.

"Sure. Why not. Vodka tonic, with a twist," Leo told the attending waiter, then pulled up a chair beside his old friend, his eyes briefly wandering around the dark wood paneled room with its fine art and delicate crystal chandeliers, to see if he could recognize any of the other patrons, before turning his attention back to Peter Alcott. "Help me celebrate, Pete, or perhaps that should be commiserate ...." Leo sighed deeply.

"Oh?" Peter arched an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Yeah. I just got kicked out of my job," Leo smiled wanly. "Neigh on forty years of loyal service. Should 'ave retired years ago, so they said, but they finally got me ...."

"Couldn't let go, huh?"

"No."

"Me neither. Although these days I'm really just a figurehead. Let all the bright young things handle all the stuff at the sharp end. Can't say I miss being on call nights ...." He chuckled, and sucked on his Scotch.

"We're past our use by date, Pete ...." Leo grinned boyishly.

"You speak for yourself ...."

"That's what they told me. The powers that be. Can't hack it anymore. Too old. Should step aside to make way for some other bright young thing, and in the end, I had to give in. My health has not been what it should be, lately, and Valerie is after me to do all the things a husband and wife should be doing in their retirement, before I turn up my toes ...." He sighed, sitting back in his chair and crossed his legs. "Talking of bright young things, I just found out about my replacement ...."

"Oh?" Peter arched an eyebrow again. "Some whiz kid from Harvard?" He asked.

"Hardly. Oxford, don't ya know ...." Leo gave an appalling impression of an English accent, as he wiggled his eyebrows.

"Since when where the C.I.A. employing English doctors?"

"F.B.I. man .... _**F.B.I**_. ...." Leo rolled his eyes in exasperation. "And I didn't say she was English, only that she was educated there ...." He sighed expressively.

"She?"

"Yes. Born here in New York, I believe, but lived over there with family since she was a small child. Good qualifications. Well liked in the office. Filled in for a colleague before Christmas ...." Leo explained somewhat stiltedly, as the waiter chose that particular moment to return with his drink, and he sipped at it greedily.

"Hey .... ya know, I just thought of something ...." Leo regarded Peter Alcott with rheumy brown eyes. "Say, Pete, have you seen anything of that crazy reward notice in all the newspapers .... you know the one .... asking for information about some woman .... or some kid .... you must have seen it .... can't have missed it, plastered all over the streets, in the backs of cabs ...."

"Mm. Yes ...." Peter sighed warily.

"Well, now that I think about it, I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was her ...." Leo mused aloud, and took another pull on his drink. "God I really needed that ...." He sighed. "Must be gettin' old, eh, pal?"

"Must be, Leo, you lost me about two blocks back ...." Peter smiled softly. "So, you think that this woman that the Bureau has hired to take over from you is the one in this reward notice in the papers?"

"God no, Pete .... " Leo suddenly grimaced and spat an ice cube back in to his glass. "Damned sensitive teeth! First thing I'm gonna do in my retirement is see a damned good dentist!" He mumbled. "No .... I'm saying Miss Oxford educated could be the one offering the reward ...." He returned to his original premise.

"Oh?" Peter pretended disinterest now, although he could not be more interested if his life depended upon it.

"Yeah. Same name. Grayson. J. Grayson. The J stands for Josephine," Leo explained. "Nah. I don't know. Maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree. Anyway, what business is it of mine?" He sighed deeply, reclining back in his seat, and taking another sip of his vodka.

"True," Peter agreed, all the time his weary old heart rejoicing.

The old saying really was true ....

_**Everything did come to those who waited ....**_

He could have kissed Leo Craven ....

But Peter restrained himself, and took another sip of his drink instead.

At least he had something to offer Jacob Wells now.

Although, for the life of him, he did not know if it would do any good.

Because he had no idea why a Forensic Pathologist with the F.B.I. should be interested in Anna Pater ....

And, it naturally followed, Vincent.

Still, his friends had wanted answers, and now he had something to give them.

/a\

Thursday afternoon, late, found Josephine Grayson, clad in an old black sweater and faded, patched denim jeans, her hair covered gypsy style by an old copper colored silk scarf, rummaging around in the dusty attic of her late mother's house, brushing away cobwebs from her cheeks and her clothes, as she identified boxes of papers belonging to her parents.

Most of the old cardboard boxes that she had found so far belonged to her father, old tax and business records going back to the year dot.

She had also rediscovered some old friends from childhood. A threadbare old Teddy Bear, which she recalled, she had named Ivan, and had always wondered what had happened to. A doll that she had named Ivy Rose, that she had once delighted in feeding water from a small plastic feeding bottle, and then watching as she cried real tears and needed her diaper changing. A rag doll called Alice, who had been her constant sleeping companion until she had gone away to England, and a favorite book of old nursery rhymes.

These items had brought back some happy memories of her father, and some not so happy memories of how sad and lonely and desperately unloved she had felt as a child.

The boxes of documents from her father's law firm, she had put to one side, along with broken statues of Greek Gods and Goddesses, mangled old lamp shades and rusted bedsteads, chests full of drapes and bed linen that had gone out of fashion, and other articles that had once had pride of place in the house, but had been discarded over the years, with her mother's changing fads in interior decor.

There were even some of the knick knacks that she remembered being on her father's desk in his study. Family photographs in heavy guilt frames that had once sat proudly on his desk, a beautiful old silver writing set and the large leather blotter. A silver cigarette box and the old heavy, silver civil war cannon cigarette lighter that he had loved, wrapped in old newsprint and shoved away out of sight. Forgotten and unloved.

Josephine handled all of these items with love, promising herself that she would return, another time, and sort through those boxes and chests, returning her father's things to the house where they belonged.

Her mother had preferred to have nothing of Edward Reeve's on plain view after his death, saying that she found it too painful to see them, reminding her of her loss.

It had been painful for Josephine too. When she had returned. Finding almost nothing of her father in the house, as if he had never lived here.

Now that Andrea was gone, and so long as she was still living here, it would be good to have a sense of her father around her, in the house again.

She still missed him so very much.

Towards the end of the afternoon, feeling hot and sweaty, her shoulders, back and legs aching from dragging heavy boxes and items of furniture out of her way, Josephine finally located two boxes, both covered with tight lids that were also secured with ancient sticky tape, and she had called down to Mrs Ludlow to ask if her son, Philip, who was visiting for the day, would mind coming up and giving her a hand to move the boxes down to her mother's room, where she could sort through them in more comfort.

Philip had readily agreed, and had now removed the boxes, and Josephine was now in the process of trying to restore some semblance of order to the old, airless attic.

"Dr Grayson?" She could suddenly hear Philip Ludlow's soft, rich voice calling out her name. "Dr Grayson?"

"I'm here ...." She poked her head around the door to the attic, and found him lurking on the landing.

"Ah, hi. There you are. Mom .... I mean Mrs Ludlow, asked me to tell you that there is a telephone call for you ...." He explained awkwardly and somewhat shyly.

"Thank you. I'll be right there."

She knocked the dust and the cobwebs from her jeans, and pulling the old scarf off her head, dislodging her hair from its ponytail, shook the dust out of that, as she shut the attic door behind her, turned the old brass key in the lock and then deposited it in the right pocket of her jeans.

Philip Ludlow moved aside to allow her to pass, then walked back down the stairs from the attic, careful on the narrow bare wooden treads, behind her, following her down the main stairs to the black and white checkered hall, where Josephine picked up the telephone receiver, and waited for Philip to disappear through the door to the kitchen, before speaking to her caller.

"Josephine Grayson."

"Hi, Dr Grayson, it's Maureen, over at the office. I thought you would want to know. A man just called, said that Anna Pater was dead, and so was the child," the breathless middle aged woman concluded hurriedly.

Josephine's heart sank immediately, and she let out a deep sigh of disappointment.

"Did he say anything else, Maureen? Did he give you his name?"

"No doctor. I'm sorry …." The woman on the other end of the line sounded somewhat sheepish. "The call came as something of a surprise ...." She explained lamely.

"Okay," Josephine sighed softly. "Thanks for calling to let me know ...."

"You're welcome, doctor, and I'm sorry that it wasn't better news. Goodnight Dr Grayson."

"Thanks .... and Happy New Year, Maureen.

"You too, doctor."

"Goodnight, Maureen ...."

_**Damn!**_

_**Another crank!**_

_**Or was it?**_

She sincerely hoped so ....

But ....

In all likelihood, Anna Pater was dead. That much, Josephine was prepared to concede, and so was her husband, John .... probably.

_**Or was he?**_

_**And why say that the child was dead?**_

_**Maybe he was. Or, maybe he was alive, and someone was just rattled enough by her big splash in the newspapers and out on the streets with the fliers, to try to warn her off?**_

Josephine set the telephone receiver back down on to it's cradle, and scratched absently at her left ear.

Why would someone wait all this time to call the hotline and then tell her that both the woman and the child were dead?

It did not make sense.

If it was true ….. Why hadn't this man called sooner?

Why hadn't he called that first day?

Why wait until now?

If he had meant to put her off, then his actions had had exactly the opposite effect.

If anything, Josephine was even more curious.

Even more determined.

And she suspected that this man knew more about Anna Pater, and her brother, then he had let on.

Someone out there _**did**_ know something!

And Josephine was determined not to give up until she discovered the truth.

All of it.

With her mind still occupied by the telephone conversation with Maureen, Josephine absently wandered in to the kitchen and asked Mrs Ludlow for a tray of tea and a small plate of sandwiches to be taken up to her mother's room, then she slowly and thoughtfully made her way back up the main staircase to Andrea's room.

Philip Ludlow had thoughtfully laid out sheets of old newspaper on the old carpet, before bringing down the boxes from the attic, and had then set them down on the newspapers.

Josephine squatted down beside the two boxes, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the dirt and cobwebs that clung to the lids and the sides, but she was relieved to find that they appeared to be in relatively good condition, and still perfectly sealed. No chance of finding that something had crawled inside to die.

She could see her mother's bold handwriting on the front of each box, the ink slightly faded now, but still clear enough for Josephine to make out that they were dates.

After finding a pair of small nail scissors from the medicine cabinet in the adjoining bathroom, Josephine was in the process of moving the first box, so that she could attack the sticky tape around the lid, when, in moving the box, she spied one of her reward announcements.

At the same moment, Philip Ludlow appeared in the open doorway, with her tray of tea and sandwiches, and coughed softly to draw her attention.

"Oh .... Thank you. Would you put it over there, please …."

She indicated with a small movement of her head to the small octagonal occasional table, and he nodded, crossing the room on soft, silent steps.

He was an attractive young man, Josephine now realized, taking a proper look at him for the first time. Tall, lean, angular face, fine dark hair, pale blue eyes. A sort of watered down version of David Duchovny, the actor from the currently very popular television series called the X Files, she thought to herself, if you liked that lean, hungry, intellectual look.

He was dressed casually, in dark blue denim jeans and an open necked pale blue shirt, and on his feet he wore designer sneakers.

She guessed his age to be somewhere close to her own, or maybe a little older and he did have a pleasant smile.

As he returned across the room on long strides, Philip's eyes spotted something in the newspaper on the floor. It was half of one of those reward announcements that he had seen in the papers recently. He couldn't make out much of it, although he recalled that it had been offering money for information about some woman and child.

"Now there's a mystery ...." He grinned at Josephine, stopping to take a closer look, although upon closer inspection, all he could make out around the box was the word Reward, the name Anna and the words All information ....

It was obvious to Josephine that he had no idea that the reward announcement was in any way connected with her.

Of course, she had not exactly shouted it from the rooftops, or taken her staff in to her confidence, but how many Dr J. Grayson's could there be in New York?

Household staff, she knew, generally had their own ways of finding out their employer's business, and Josephine was a little surprised that the Ludlow's had not put two and two together.

"I love a mystery, don't you, Dr Grayson?"

"Mm ...." She replied absently.

"Looks like you are about to embark upon one yourself ...." He commented. "The boxes." He clarified when this drew her curious green/gold gaze.

"Oh. Yes ...."

"Doctor, I was sorry to hear about your mother," He said, somewhat awkwardly. "She was always very good to my folks ...."

"Philip ...." Josephine let out a deep sigh and regarded him steadily. "I understand the uncertainty that your parents must be feeling at this time, so, please, let me assure you, that so long as I am here in New York, there is a place for them here in this house ...."

"Oh no .... I wasn't .... I mean .... I don't ...." He floundered, lowering his gaze.

Josephine could not suppress a soft smile.

Sons like him were out of fashion, she thought to herself, thoughtful, caring and considerate.

To the youth of today, those things were out of date.

"Philip, tell your parents that I am going to be here for some time," he looked up sharply then, and she could see the relief in his eyes. "I have taken a job here in the city," She explained softly. "And my mother's business affairs will keep me here indefinitely. Does that put your mind at rest?"

"Yes. Thank you. I really didn't mean to put you on the spot, doctor ...."

"You were just being a concerned and caring son ...."

"Yes."

"Don't worry, Philip. I will see to it that they are taken care of. I will probably sell the house, later, but I will ensure that Mr and Mrs Ludlow are either kept on by the new owners, or I will find them somewhere to live myself, and see to it that they are financially secure," she promised solemnly.

"Thank you. That is more than generous ...."

"It is also what my mother would have wanted," Josephine assured, although she was far from sure that her mother had even given a moment's thought to her elderly staff's future, beyond the small legacies that she had set aside for them in her will.

"I'll let you get back to your mystery," Philip smiled awkwardly. "Dr Grayson, mom can be a little .... harsh .... down right judgmental, sometimes .... but, she is good at what she does."

"I know that, Philip."

"And .... she really does like you ...."

"Oh?" Josephine struggled to conceal a smile.

"I know ...." He sighed deeply then, jamming his balled fists in to the pockets of his jeans. "She has a funny way of showing it ...." He chuckled then, a soft, rich sound. "But it's true. Your mother, well, Mrs Reeve, she used to talk to my mother some times, tell her how proud she was of you, that she wished that she could have been a better mother to you ...." He paused awkwardly, unsure if he should go on.

"When Mom first came to work here, she thought it was kinda strange and unnatural, that you were never here, but Mrs Reeve soon set her straight, told her that she had sent you away because other people could give you the life that she could not, the love that she could not ...."

"Philip .... please ...." Josephine felt a lump rise in her throat, and tears sting in her eyes.

"I just wondered if anyone ever told you. She did love you. She just didn't know how to show it ...." He regarded her sympathetically then. "I thought you should know, especially now she's gone ...."

"Yes. Thank you ...." Josephine sighed softly, and watched him walk out of the room with a heavy heart.

Of course, he had only been trying to be kind, sympathetic.

But it had reminded her that her mother had been able to confide in strangers, the things that she had been unable to tell her own flesh and blood child, until it had been almost too late.

Josephine closed her eyes momentarily, and let out a long shuddering breath as she brushed away her tears.

_**This would never do.**_ She told herself sternly.

That was an old pain.

One she planned to leave behind in 1994.

There was no room for it in the new life that she planned for herself, starting January 1, 1995.

Leave the past where it the past.

But ....

There was one thing that she could not leave in the past.

Her brother.

She thought again about the telephone call to the hotline.

Someone out there was very frightened by her enquiries.

And that could mean only one thing, Josephine reasoned silently.

_**He was alive ....**_

_**Alive ....**_

And someone was anxious that the delicate balance of their life was about to be destroyed.

Josephine rose slowly from her knees, crossed the room and poured herself a cup of tea, which she sipped slowly, as she allowed her mind to wander.

There was something that she had not thought about, in putting this quest in to motion.

_**His family.**_

The people who had loved him, nurtured him, raised and protected him these past forty years.

She had not considered their feelings in all of this.

Now, she realized, it must have come as a shock.

It must be a very worrying and frightening time for them.

Anxious that in embracing his new family, their beloved son would leave them behind.

Josephine knew how she would feel, in their place.

Seeing that reward notice.

Instead of rushing to the telephone to tell this stranger what she wanted to know, she would have been more inclined to head for the hills!

But that only helped to reinforce her belief that he was indeed alive, and being shielded by the people who loved him.

If that was the case ....

Then he was a very lucky man ....

To have such loving people around him.

And she had no way to reassure him, or them, that she meant no harm to them, that all she wanted was to know that he was alive, well .... That he was real, and that she was _**not**_ alone anymore.

Her teacup rattled loudly in the saucer, her hands shaking badly, her heart lurching in her chest, as it suddenly occurred to her that, maybe, just maybe _**he**_ had been the one who had made the call to the hotline.

Maybe_** he**_ was the one who did not want the delicate balance of his life disturbed, thrown in to turmoil by an interfering stranger?

Hot tears slid down her cheeks, and Josephine sank in to a nearby chair, setting down her teacup and burying her head in her hands, as she gave in to harsh, wracking sobs.

_**Damn you, Mother!**_ She railed silently.

_**Why couldn't you leave well alone?**_

_**Why ....**_

_**Why ....**_

_**Why ....**_

No answers.

Only questions.

More questions.

Like ....

_**Why should he even be interested**_?

It was forty years too late. What difference would this stranger's curiosity about him now, make to him? His life?

_**Why should he even be curious?**_

_**Why should he even care?  
**_

_**What was in those boxes?**_

Josephine sniffed, looking up at the boxes on the other side of the room.

_**And why were they so important to Andrea Reeve?**_

_**So important that she had made it a strict instruction in her will, that Josephine find them out and keep them safe for her brother.**_

_**Not for Josephine herself.**_

_**But for her brother.**_

It was time to open the boxes, and find out.

Josephine brushed her tears away impatiently, and ran her fingers roughly through her hair, which had come loose from the ponytail that she had secured it in before donning the scarf and going up to the attic.

And with a long, deep sigh of determination, rose from her chair, crossed the room on long strides, and squatted down beside the first box, her gaze momentarily drifting to the reward notice on the sheet of newsprint on the floor.

Then, she picked up the nail scissors once more, and began to cut through the layers of old sticky tape around the sides of the lid of the box, chewing pensively on her bottom lip as she worked ....

_**To Be Continued/.....**_


End file.
